Maximillian Amadeus Banzai (banzai) wrote,
Maximillian Amadeus Banzai

  • Mood:

Through a glass darkly

We cannot discover the source of our natural life through common sense and reasoning...growth in our spiritual life comes not from focusing directly on it, but from concentrating on our Father in heaven.

Oswald Chambers, My Utmost for His Highest (18 May, “Living Simply–Yet Focused”)

Work was good today, but I kept myself too distracted to worship much in it. Our guest preacher is a guy I dearly love and enjoy, but I don’t enjoy his preaching style. Sitting it out is nothing more than snobbery. At least I own my crap, though. What was good was the people. Yes, I’m still missing connections,* but there’s still goodness in being part of my community, and people in whom I can take real joy.

*Process note: I often get tired of writing about the same things over and over in my journal; I can only imagine how tiring it must be for anyone other than me to read. That’s why I’ve largely given up mentioning my sleep patterns–they’re still erratic and short, but it just doesn’t seem beneficial to keep harping on it when it’s not affecting me that much or in any new ways. My trouble connecting with people will likely soon fall by the writing wayside as a simple fact of my life these days.

Doing more thinking on love and leadership, spurred in part by The Matrix Reloaded yesterday. One of my conclusions is that if I am ever leading anyone away from Christ, I do not love them.

Ben brought a proof copy of the upcoming issue of Avaldus (the name keeps changing, but it’s the same old ‘zine), the one written around one of my journal entries from early this year, anonymously attributed. Seeing others reflections on a slice of my story was nearly as surreal as the slice itself. Ben said he thought the overall tone of the issue was dark, though not in a negative way. My standards of dark are different, which should be no surprise. A couple of my poems, “Quiet” and “Shade”, were included, and other pieces include a pre-dawn vista of rainsoaked airport runways, a poem entitled “The Red Dress,” a reflection on time and how we live it, and a journey to visit a cemetary.

Time and a cemetary. How did they know?

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