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Cornered

September 11, 2014

Here I am again, staring at a blank screen, tapping my finger in time to the blinking of the cursor.

I know why they call it that.

All I can think about is what I don’t want to talk about.

Sometimes I feel the weight of my square peggishness.  The world can’t help that it’s made up of round holes any more than I can help that I don’t fit into them.

Not that I want to fit into them.

I felt it tonight at a gathering of Jesus-followers.  We gathered to pray, and unlike most times, we had a focused topic about which to pray.  I was fine with this.

But as we began to sing, telling God how much we love Him, and I began to whisper some things on my heart to Him, He began to flood some things on His heart back to me.

It was the stuff of corners, of the angles and edges that don’t fit in round holes.

And I couldn’t stop crying.

I never took the microphone to speak or pray about what I heard and saw.  I’m not usually prone to deep emotional displays, but I knew that I wouldn’t make it more than two words in before I fell apart.  And I had no language to explain why.

Even now I can feel the tears threatening, just thinking about it.

It’s not the first time I’ve retreated to silence because I lacked words.  Sometimes silence is the only thing that makes sense.  But experiencing the lack of composure was something different.  There was a power in it that unnerved me to the core, and it felt like if I really rode it to wherever it was going, I might not be able to find my way back.

I know…that sounds totally melodramatic.

I told you I didn’t want to talk about it.

The screen is no longer blank, but the cursor is still blinking.

And I still know why they call it that.

 

 

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