Hashtag Hallelujah
Easter Sunday:
"Good Friday.
I read from Leonard Cohen's Book of Longing before getting out of bed. Wrote three poems, it had been a while.
In the evening, the doorbell rang: two American Mormon boys with accents as thick as mine when I speak English. I complimented them on their Dutch though, it was excellent. Very hard language to learn.
We had a wonderful talk in darkness - I didn't turn on the light in the hallway. One of them was short and kept repeating rehearsed lines, the other told me about his calling, how he had prayed for three years until he got an answer. That was genuine and I told them about my first experience of being flooded by light.
A part of me kept expecting the natural flow to wear off, as it usually does, leaving me increasingly awkward, trying to end the talk and send them on their merry way, but it didn't happen. The dark helped.
The inspired one asked if they could pray with me and I said "sure, if we all join hands". So we did; we bowed our heads, he said a prayer with my name in it and we said "amen". It was lovely and something did happen - "When three or more in My Name", et cetera.
The one with the calling gave me a business card (calling card?) with a very white Jesus on it and #HALLELUJAH
I declined his offer for them to return so we could discuss their book - he showed it to me - and said I have my own books and I am in constant communication with God, in my own way. But I was friendly and enthusiastic, because I really was. So far from home, and the boy has a calling. That's beautiful.
It was a lovely meeting of souls and it felt like a present. They left in good spirits (as far as I could tell) and I was grateful.
Saturday I went to a book sale at the library, found a book about miracles and read it in the garden with Cat on my lap.
At night I watched the American version of The Passion, in Louisiana, and cried my eyes out. In bed I prayed to Jesus to please help me breathe; even lying down I couldn't get enough air in my lungs. It was hard not to let it terrify me and thus make it worse.
It's been days. I try not to worry about it but it's scary.
Today I read some more Leonard Cohen poems, wrote down useful Osho quotes in my little black book of reminders, listened to a Mahalia Jackson cd until the DVD-player tried to eat it, and started rereading Nikos Kazantzakis' Christ Recrucified, which happens to open with The Passion in a Greek village. I didn't plan all this, it just happened.
Now I've turned to blues on the radio. Outside the sun is shining after a mostly gray, wet day and this book is so magnificently written it reminds me of some of the best lines in Moby Dick, about spring in the air."
That night I re-watched Fly Away Home and again cried my eyes out because it's a true story with beautiful music and young Anna Paquin and the goslings are so darn cute in it.
Three wonderful days, full of light.
Of course I've been paying dearly for them ever since. Still, it was nice. I've been prayed for, how often does something like that happen?
"Good Friday.
I read from Leonard Cohen's Book of Longing before getting out of bed. Wrote three poems, it had been a while.
In the evening, the doorbell rang: two American Mormon boys with accents as thick as mine when I speak English. I complimented them on their Dutch though, it was excellent. Very hard language to learn.
We had a wonderful talk in darkness - I didn't turn on the light in the hallway. One of them was short and kept repeating rehearsed lines, the other told me about his calling, how he had prayed for three years until he got an answer. That was genuine and I told them about my first experience of being flooded by light.
A part of me kept expecting the natural flow to wear off, as it usually does, leaving me increasingly awkward, trying to end the talk and send them on their merry way, but it didn't happen. The dark helped.
The inspired one asked if they could pray with me and I said "sure, if we all join hands". So we did; we bowed our heads, he said a prayer with my name in it and we said "amen". It was lovely and something did happen - "When three or more in My Name", et cetera.
The one with the calling gave me a business card (calling card?) with a very white Jesus on it and #HALLELUJAH
I declined his offer for them to return so we could discuss their book - he showed it to me - and said I have my own books and I am in constant communication with God, in my own way. But I was friendly and enthusiastic, because I really was. So far from home, and the boy has a calling. That's beautiful.
It was a lovely meeting of souls and it felt like a present. They left in good spirits (as far as I could tell) and I was grateful.
Saturday I went to a book sale at the library, found a book about miracles and read it in the garden with Cat on my lap.
At night I watched the American version of The Passion, in Louisiana, and cried my eyes out. In bed I prayed to Jesus to please help me breathe; even lying down I couldn't get enough air in my lungs. It was hard not to let it terrify me and thus make it worse.
It's been days. I try not to worry about it but it's scary.
Today I read some more Leonard Cohen poems, wrote down useful Osho quotes in my little black book of reminders, listened to a Mahalia Jackson cd until the DVD-player tried to eat it, and started rereading Nikos Kazantzakis' Christ Recrucified, which happens to open with The Passion in a Greek village. I didn't plan all this, it just happened.
Now I've turned to blues on the radio. Outside the sun is shining after a mostly gray, wet day and this book is so magnificently written it reminds me of some of the best lines in Moby Dick, about spring in the air."
That night I re-watched Fly Away Home and again cried my eyes out because it's a true story with beautiful music and young Anna Paquin and the goslings are so darn cute in it.
Three wonderful days, full of light.
Of course I've been paying dearly for them ever since. Still, it was nice. I've been prayed for, how often does something like that happen?
posted by M. at 12:14 PM
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