| My supreme thanks to Laura and Amanda for making this challenge possible! |
On the day that I met Hanson, a thick stale coffee fog hung around and through and somehow above the basement hallway and room that defined our encounter. It was a potent combination. Like definitive moments in everybody’s life, the scent of a freshly laundered shirt in all-purpose Cheer or coconut sun block, marks the territory forever. There is no denying the sense of smell, it NEVER forgets. That’s why elephants, the animal with the biggest nose, are known for their great memories.
Down a narrow hallway and into a dimly lit room with really worn linoleum, I had the faintest notion that this was feeling dangerously sacred. But why? I had fought this feeling . . . in fact, had prayed for salvation from my idolatry. I had attempted to weave the music into my gratitude regarding the Almighty’s work on Earth . . . His supreme power over the gift of song. But, apparently, all for naught. It was inescapable. Hanson had worked themselves into my indelible childhood notion of God’s dwelling place—a dusty church basement.
It wasn’t until returning home and stepping downstairs for Bible study at a new church, that I realized how mixed up things had become. The winding stairway with spindly black banisters, the narrow hallway with random rooms opening unexpectedly on both sides . . . the mystery of it all. It was working in reverse. The impenetrable sanctuary of my place of worship had been clearly captured by Hanson. Or had I surrendered without a fight?
I mean, you always dream of the day when you will come face to face with the Creator of the Universe. The wait before the meet and greet is the closest I’ve ever come so far to the immediate wonder and excitement—the apprehension. I was bracing myself for disappointment—at my own shortcomings and potentially awkward greeting, not God’s.
But after it was all said and done, the encounter was more like capturing a butterfly than actually meeting God. I mean, I believe you’re guaranteed a meeting with God, for better or worse. But a handshake with Hanson is eerily like chasing a butterfly across the fifty states, involving careful planning and anticipating future stops.
Although, there’s something irresistible about saying, “Yeah, for an instant I was within reach,” you suddenly feel the powdery residue of the beating wings. You look between your fingers and realize you know nothing more about the butterfly than you did a second before it was fluttering frantically in your loose grip. However, you are sure of something involving yourself.
Something in your heart has shifted. You may, some day, try to catch another butterfly, but you will always know that you are as much a prisoner as it is in the moment its wings are beating against your palms. At that instant, you too are trapped, in a moral decision. What you decide will forever live in your soul. A memory of how you desire to become one with something that cannot return your love for trapping it.
Love—inside-out.
And so, stale coffee and dusty basements still belong to God. Which means I will return them to their rightful owner. Freedom.
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write-a-thon The writing you will encounter in the following journal entries are best described as "explorations" rather than fiction or non-fiction. Like the beginnings of a rock or insect collection, the writing will at first appear jumbled. In time I will rifle through them and attempt to order and classify. You're welcome to scout along with me. Hope you find this journey worthwhile. I salute your bravery. |