in spite of that, we call this Friday good

"The dripping blood our only drink,
The bloody flesh our only food:
In spite of which we like to think
That we are sound, substantial flesh and blood-
Again, in spite of that, we call this Friday good."-Four Quartets

Last night, contemplating His death

being reminded of His victory,

how much I need

what He did upon the cross,

defeating death by death,

what he endured

gladly for our sakes.

taking communion,

remembering, his body was broken, his blood shed once for all

that we may be made whole and walk in newness of life.

He was nailed that our bondage may be broken.

He was cursed that we may partake of His glory and blessing.

He took on darkness that we may walk in His light.

We need his broken body and bleeding side to make us wholly alive.

So let us go to this blood-bought meal and remember Christ.

The Bridegroom takes the curse for His bride.

Let us go, and let us also

leave all other lovers, all idols which clamor for our hearts,

and cleave unto Christ our Savior, our Bridegroom, our Lord.

taste and see that the Lord is good

step out

onto the waters

in faith

in obedience

trusting

he who promised is

able

to accomplish all

that he

has purposed for

you.

his compassion

"The wounded surgeon plies the steel

That questions the distempered part;

Beneath the bleeding hands we feel.

The sharp compassion of the healer's art."

~T.S. Eliot

The Four Quartets

my friend Micalah and I like to paint together. cardboard from a pizza box became our canvas. this phrase from Eliot has been on my mind a lot lately. There is a lot of pain that comes to bring about healing. Sometimes the medicine we drink is bitter and kills a part of us, in order that we may live. And just as a child with a hurting knee must learn to take his hands off the bleeding knee to let it's mother apply the salve that stings, and must let the stitches be sown that pierce to mend, so I must learn to let go of my wounds, and trust God do His perfect, painful healing work on my heart.

"Flames purify.

Self's idol do not mourn

For it must die

That I to love be born.

Fire can't devour

The holy children's mirth

That turns this hour

From death to radiant birth.

O burning Son,

Fiercer than the furnace flame,

O purifying One,

Come, burn me with thy Name.

So, dead to sin,

Alive only in thee

My life begin

Now in eternity."
-Madeleine L'Engle