Maximillian Amadeus Banzai (banzai) wrote,
Maximillian Amadeus Banzai

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Feeling a bit disquiet. Work was slightly frustrating this morning, with minor, mundane bothers eliciting more significant responses inside me than were due. Sometimes I get on my nerves; little wonder the rest of the world does, too. Prayer meeting in just over an hour— probably right where I need to be.

Immediately upon arrival at Victrola, I'm called into conversation with old and new friends: Jen and Chris, Tanya and Troy, Ken, and Lee. The latter two are pastors; Troy also served a brief stint as a youth pastor in a Filipino church. Should really be more social with my Victrola friends outside the café. If I'm waiting for an invitation, I should start reading the writing on the wall.

Speaking of social, I've got calendared commitments this week: dinner at the Petersons' on Tuesday, Pete and Kirsten's wedding Sunday. Meg wants to get together soon as well. Part of me wants to retreat before I've begun. What is that? A fear of having something taken from me, some precious resource I cannot replace easily, that I will walk away more empty than before, having to face the next day all the same.

I am ashamed. I love too little to part with time, too little to give of myself. "Ask nothing of me. I've done my bit for King and country." People clutter my world with demands and irrelevance; they stain my carpets and topple my furniture. They gnaw at me. In their presence I either feel alone or long to be so.

Yet why are there exceptions? Why are there those few I ask to be with, those I can rest with, those I to whom I would give without hesitation or remorse— and without loss? What makes them different, makes me different?

Still so very much to learn about love, about Him.

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