Am I a God near by, says the Lord, and not a God far off? Jeremiah 23:23Some days Yahweh's crayon boxholds colors for tiptoeing within regret's boldlines, and others for scribbling acceptance'sWild Blue Yonder on bathroom walls,jet trails through every grown-up's sky. Silverbecomes the dime I find in Seven Eleven'sparking lot, the memory of a minnow's flashor Aunt Mary's lost ring—found.And there's this gray crayon's violet wrap,labeled Purple Mountains' Majesty,Crayola's Rosetta Stone, a god gone corporate,and international conspiracy to grab a child's soul.But what I'd like to believe is that Yahweh, mostmornings, strolls through his garden toward a hillsidedoor, tugs it open, waves on light, revealingcountless casks holding dyes, glimmers, petals,screams, crushed insects, explosions, rust,ointments, folded galaxies, sage, giggles,lightning streaks, old lady dandelion hair,locomotives, wine, grief (some casks leak),blank peacock feathers, neon gas, angel raiment rags.Then, Yahweh plays.
Amy Frykholm on the community schools movement, Jesse James DeConto on the Wild Goose Festival, Miroslav Volf on honoring others.
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