Celtic Daily Prayer

From The Book (p. 774):

When mystery hides Thee from the sight of faith and hope;
When pain turns even love to dust;
When life is bitter to the taste and our song of joy dies down to silence;
Then, Father, do for us that which is past our power to do for ourselves.

Break through our darkness with Thy light.
Show us Thyself in Jesus suffering on a Tree,
Rising from the grave,
Reigning from a throne with all power and love for us unchanging.

So shall our fear be gone and our feet set upon a radiant path.

(Psalm 80: 4-7, Isaiah 54: 6-8, Revelation 7: 13-17.)

Will You See?

I am so tired of being a box. I don’t have six sides and I’m not square, so why do you box me? I am more than what you think, trust me. I have breasts and a vagina but that’s not all. My vagina does not define me for you. I am a woman but I am no woman like you think I am. Don’t take me into your brain, your bedroom, and play chess on my ass. I am not your toy or your game or the hand that strokes your ego. If I am beautiful, don’t hold it against me. And don’t hold me to it. My ugly is my harbor. I am lovely and brave and I am dark and afraid. I will love but I will hate. I will harm you and I will like it. I will watch you bleed. I will feel sorrow and shame and will hunger for repentance. I will cry and ache. I will swear to love you and I will stab my heart with your bloody sword. I am a warrior, a shepherd, a queen. I am a child, a storm, and a blaze. I am both a womb and a tomb. I will breathe life and I will suffocate. I am death and resurrection. I am no god but I will try. I will bring warmth and the blueness of ice. I will make you wonder. You will starve with dissatisfaction, trust me. You will see my back but at least you will see me at all.

You will see my brilliance, my grace. You will find joy in my laughter and rest in my love. You will scream with frustration and dance with celebration. You will love me and you will want to leave me. You will fight for me and against me. You will find wealth and glory. Free me from this box. Free me from this box and dance with me. I am more than what you think. I am not my vagina. I am this and I am this and I am this. I am not that. Will You See? I am not that.

Blog Help?

Hey fellow bloggers!
I need help. For some reason my blog now says "Bryan & Angela," has a different picture, and has the set up of our wedblog. How did this happen? How can I change it? Any ideas? HELP. I want to be differentiated from our wedblog!!!

A Beautiful Woman

A Beautiful Woman

She sits before the class. She’s probably 60, with Mardi Gras beads around her neck for Fat Tuesday. She’s spunky, she’s fun, and she’s inviting. She looks like my old kindergarten teacher. Her hair is auburn with a bit of gray. Her mouth wrinkles with years of laugh lines.

She has AIDS.

She was an elementary school teacher. She loves children. Her husband worked in a factory and was a blood donor whenever given the opportunity for the paid time off and free juice and cookies. He found out over the telephone that he was HIV positive. She got tested. At 31, she too was HIV positive.

He had an encounter that contracted him the virus. A one night stand, a one time thing. She took care of him until he died. He was 39.

When asked how and why she stayed with him she said, “I loved him. He was my partner. I’m more pissed at him for leaving me here than having the affair.”

She went on to offer advice on anger: “I’m a fan of holding anger. There’s nothing wrong with it. I’ve made myself 3 rules: 1.) I can’t hurt myself. 2.) I can’t hurt anyone else. And 3.) I have to clean it up."

She now speaks to schools and training classes of her experience living with HIV/AIDS. She is an educator. A survivor. A fighter. A lover. She is a beautiful woman.

me in a nutshell

check out the wedblog for an updated post!

if walls could talk...

so, the location of our school is finally moving. it's big, it's beautiful, it's by the water, and we love it. to sort of pay homage to the walls that have housed us up to this point, we were asked to write stories speaking to where in the "old building" had we seen the face of God. we had our last student leadership meeting in the building tonight. my last class in the building is a week from tomorrow. my story to a sweet farewell?

I can't possibly be diggin' him, can I? I mean, he's just so not my type. But I can't take my eyes off of him. I watch him across the room, mingling with all sorts of people. We're just friends, I think. He's a good friend, fun to be around. That's all it is. I don't like him, like him. Do I? I wish he was in my group. These bookmarks are so lame. It would be more enjoyable if he were in my group. I mean, as my friend.

It was New Student Orientation. September, two thousand six. Large Classroom. He was wearing a plaid blue and white shirt with shiny white snaps down the front and jeans. I found him instantly in the crowd of students and faculty. We were just friends then. I tried to talk myself out of his irresistible charm and cuteness. I was not dating for a year. Not anyone. And that was final.

Two weeks later we kissed. One year later he proposed. Eight months from now, I'm walking down the aisle to marry the man of my dreams. I met him and have grown to know him within these walls. And in this story, I have seen many times the face of God. I see God often in the face of the man wearing the plaid blue and white shirt with shiny white snaps down the front and jeans.

of mind, body, and blood

Lying in bed, my eyes glued to the pages. Comfortably leaning against my wall with two fluffy pillows at my back and a fan blowing in the background, I was entranced by the author's insight, wisdom, and phenomenal articulation of a master-mind theory. I couldn't get enough of this book. It was brilliant.

Suddenly, I needed to reposition the 600 pages in my cramping hands. As I was rushing to finish a page's last paragraph, I noticed the strangest feeling spread across my fingers. Reading the last word of the page, I glanced down at the fingers supporting my new favorite text book. My eyes met red. Dark red. Blood red. My brain finally caught up with the images absorbed by my eyes as I watched streams of blood trickle down my thumbs to the protruding bones of each wrist. I licked my lips, blotted them together. Blood? Yes, blood.

I threw off my covers, launched the book onto the floor, and searched to find the spout of the fountain. My t-shirt was drenched. Spots of blood on my chest, my sleeves, and down the belly of the shirt. I searched frantically. One would think I had started my period in some sort of explosion. I traced the blood lines from my wrist bones up to my thumbs. I found spouts on each of my thumbs, where my flesh was torn to shreds, as if massacred by a thousand needles. I brought my fingers to my mouth, placing them gently on the lowest lip. I felt a tinge of pain shoot up the back of my neck. The outer layers of skin across my lips must have been attacked by the same needles. The lowest lip was tender, wet with blood, and swollen in all the wrong places. I used my already tainted shirt to wipe off the trickling blood. I lifted the shirt off of my confused and trembling body. More blood. It was coming from a scratch on the left side of my chest...only skin away from where my beating heart quivered.

Just as I have yet to adequately explain to myself all that happened in those moments between the book, the author, my stories, and me, I will not attempt to make sense of it for you. I write this sort of to remember the connection that is the human body. I was reading a book that as far as I knew consciously, I really enjoyed. I also was reading a book that somehow, someway invited me to direct my emotional experience onto and through my very own flesh. I was reading a book that intruded into my subconscious and discovered things that maybe my conscious mind would rather not see. My mind, conscious and not, was connected by means of mutilation to my body...and my body was connected to my soul by means of a well-placed scratch right above my bleeding heart.