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Thursday, May 19, 2011

The Dilemma of the Questioning

He was young when the preachers came. About 14 or so years old. In almost no time at all they had the city riled up in such a state of religious and spiritual fervor that none could ignore. People could hardly speak of things others than faith and works and the judgment of God. In a flurry, people flocked to separate congregations to hear what they considered to be the true word of God.

In this great religious meat market the clergy were the true fueling force. They cried to one and all to come and partake of the waters of life. Let each come and find faith in Jesus; which faith was of no consequence, just come.

Yet, as soon as people filed away from one congregation or the other, such brotherly invitations to Christ fell to contention and condemnation. Priest contended against priest, and convert against convert. In the blink of an eye the Christians didn't seem so christian anymore. Words became weapons, and scripture became deadly.

It was in the midst of this war of words and contest of opinions that he found himself, a young boy so unaware of the ways of the world, seeking to find faith. The tide of religious excitement took him along in its current, and young as he was he couldn't help but feel the same deep and pressing desire to unite himself to God and be one of His people. 

But which congregation was God's, he didn't know. And all the people in town disagreed. Even his family was divided on the issue, maintaining a peaceful truce between the converts and those who kept themselves apart from it all. 

He went to the revival meetings as often as he could. He would sit and listen, eyes and ears ablaze as the latest sermon on the way and will of God was trumpeted forth with great charisma and enthusiasm. The words of the preacher would strike a fire of excitement in his heart, and he would think, "yes, this has to be the one." Though as soon as he left that congregation and joined another, that certainty was fading and being replaced by different orchestra of "be thou"s and "thou shalt"s and "thus saith the Lord"s. As that sermon rolled forth he would feel the excitement again, and feel the logic of it, and think "oh, yes! This one, this has to be it."

But, alas, the fervor never lasted. For as soon as another sect began debating the points of the first or the second, the logic, the reasoning, and the scripture would all be lost in a massive heap of rubble. 

Often he spent his evenings walking the dusty roads pondering the words and ideas of the latest meeting. What they said made so much sense. But so had what the last preacher said. And his sermon contradicted the first. How could they all make so much sense, yet refute each other so completely?

Sometimes, the weight of it would get so heavy that it was all he could do to not cry out in frustration. In moments of fleeting sleep he would stare at the stars and wonder: "what am I to do? Who out of all these is right? If any of them are right, which is it? And how can I know?"

But the even the answer to this question eluded him, and he would eventually fall into an uneasy sleep in the early hours of the morning. 

And so time went on. Preachers preached, converts testified, and the fire of faith seemed to have claimed almost everyone to a congregation. But no matter how many times the boy visited a congregation, he never found any more clarity than he had before. He was going in circles. And even though he felt more partial to some sects over the others, never could he bring himself to throw himself into the waters of baptism and relentless loyalty. 

He listened. And he pondered. And he listened again. He read the Bible, trying to find the answers the preachers weren't giving him, but couldn't find any solidity. However, he did not relent in his search. He couldn't. There was too much at stake.

One evening, while searching the Bible for answers, he fell upon a verse. "If any of you lack wisdom," he read, "let him ask of God, who giveth to all men liberally, and upbraideth not, and it shall be given him." His blood seemed to burn as he read those words, slamming his heart against his ribcage. Every fiber of his being shook. If any of you lack wisdom, let him ask of God.

He couldn't shake those words from his mind. Through the following days they echoed inside of him, bouncing off of every question he asked himself. If any of you lack wisdom. They seemed to whisper in his ear as he listened to the clergy declare their fiery sermons. Let him ask of God. They pulsed with every beat of his heart as he heard converts testify and contradict and argue with one another. And it shall be given him.

He needed to know. He had to know. And from the word of God itself told him to ask God. Don't ask the preacher. Don't ask the converts. Don't ask religious scholars, or miracle workers, or even the Bible itself. If any of you lack wisdom, let him ask of God.

The words burned within his chest day in and day out, urging him on. They roused excitement within him, not like the preachers with their emotional intonations, but a deeper excitement, as if his very bones were shaking. 

But part of him also hid itself from those words. He couldn't ask. What if God didn't answer? What then? He'd be right back where he started. And even worse, what if he did? What if God gave him an answer, and it wasn't what he expected, what if it was the opposite of what he wanted? Could he handle receiving such an answer? Would he be strong enough? Or would it simply crush him?

These two halves battled it out within him, and all the while he continued to listen, to read, and to ponder, hoping something would sway the fight one way or the other. 

He was in bed one night, feeling the same familiar tension in his stomach as the two sides debated in his head. He tried to shut up the noise and fall asleep, but the battle was beyond him now. 

Finally, he let go, and just listened to the sound of the silence. The tension fell somewhat, though the root was still there in his stomach. He turned and looked out the window in resignation. He couldn't handle the conflict anymore. The indecision was just too much. He looked past the road and toward the woods on the other side of their property. That's where he had decided to go to ask, if he did go. The space between the trees was dark as pitch, despite the bright moonlight pouring across the nearby fields. The contrast was so sharp. All one would have to do to be able to move out of the darkness was take a step. Just one step. And suddenly, everything would be bathed in light. 

That same choice was his.

He didn't sleep much. The battle tried to reignite itself throughout the night, but he knew what he had to do. When the first shreds of twilight broke over the fields, he got up and got dressed. In the deep silence he slipped outside, stopping by the barrel on the side of the house to splash water across his face. Then he turned, faced the woods across the road, and walked.

When the light finally faded from his eyes, he blinked, trying to focus. He was on his back, and morning light was pouring through the trees from the east. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly, feeling every inch of his body relax. The tension was gone. The battle was gone. The words and arguments and the questions were gone. Well, maybe not all the questions. But they didn't eat at him the way they had before. 

He listened, this time hearing the silence on a whole new level. It seemed to come from within him. It was the sound of perfect reconciliation. It was calm. Every inhibition had fled. Every doubt was gone. He knew. Wellness and euphoria filled his chest. And for the first time in a long time, he laughed, simply, because it felt good.

Monday, May 16, 2011

Black Notebook #3

This one needed its own.

What more do you want from me?!
What more can I give?
I stand on the shore and scream
at your endless expanse.
You rock back and forth on the sand,
innocence denying inner greed.
    You lie to everyone.
Your mellow show makes me the villain.
How can I not comply,
seeing you ask so little?
You simply want a shore to dance on.
Is that so much?

But others don't see,
see the lust with which you storm my door.
When eyes are turned,
when day has fallen,
you attack me,
demand of me,
command to me,
strip me of all but a saline aftertaste.

Billowing waves have stolen
my home,
my childhood,
my pride.
Your hurricane fury has even struck my
health and heart,
leaving me broken in flesh,
and failing in faith.

By day I try to hide my shattered form,
covering my worn and torn visage.
Few who could see me as I am
would offer me unselfish mercy.
     Thus even in your passive slumber
you take from me.

What else do you want?!
What can satiate the hunger
that everything else has failed to satisfy?
What else,
you miserable wretch?

I will not concede.
I will not stay broken.
I will not be defeated.
I will fight.
I will destroy you.
And one day the rage that fuels you
will dry the ocean from your bones.
And I will stand on the rocks
and laugh.

Black Notebook #2

Another couple of entries from this last semester.


Finality is false.
Tomorrow is promise.
Today is possibility.
And self-awareness is power.

Deep within,
infinite potential awaits.
The light that breaks the seal is
the light that shines within us.
And that light shines
when we finally accept that
we have always been enough.

I shouldn't look.
I should lower my eyes and avoid you.
You are not like me.
You do not share my passion.
And you are spoken for.
     So a simply look does no harm, right?
I'll just look for a moment.
     My god, you're beautiful.

But of course you are.
Because while your visage emanates pleasure,
Your soul is to me a blank slate.
And I can paint whatever I want in you.
     So I make you perfect.
And you become perfect sensuality.

I'll never touch you.
Never speak.
For the moment I do you'll shatter.
What I've made of you will be in shambles.
For perfection is best left to dreams and fantasies.
And you're best seen from a distance.


Like a moth to light, I am drawn to you.
I have a need, a thirst! to look and be near you.
You seem to shine, all of you,
and I wonder how it would be to be yours,
 Each in turn.

I imagine waking up in your arms,
Looking into your eyes as morning breaks,
Kissing your cheek.
I look from one to the next,
living a lifetime in a glance.

Why do I look?
Why do I wonder?
I have arms and eyes and cheeks all my own.
And I love those eyes, arms, and cheeks.
So why do I look,
and watch,
and wonder?
Why do fiery passions of "what if"
flood my veins?
Why do I feel this desire clawing at my skin,
trying to tear from within its fleshy prison?

What is the master emotion?
Is it fury?
Perhaps sorrow.
Or joy.
Does anger's power make all exempt?
what a foolish question.
Humanity echoes from ages past and present
that love is the master emotion.
For love contains all the rest.

But what kind of love is king?
Does lucid infatuation rule?
Or does pleasure?
Perhaps passion owns all the rest.
Or romance.
Or is it yet contentment?

I have comfort.
It sleeps next to me,
wraps itself around me,
pulls me close.
Kisses me when only crickets see.

I wake up next to comfort,
I rest on its chest as sleep starts to fade.
Comfort is mine,
and I am comfort's.
I do not fear its loss.

Then why does the beast within me
yearn to break free?

What love pulls me?
What do I truly want?

Saturday, May 14, 2011

Inner Battle

Last night I watched an LGBT movie that I'd never heard of before. It's called Dorian Blues, and it follows the coming out story of a boy in his senior year of high school. While the premise was nothing new, the execution was fresh and entertaining. It had a light comic feel as it followed this cynical 18-year old through his journey of dealing with his sexuality.

At the heart of the movie was Dorian's conflict with his strong-minded, authoritarian father. His father is ruthless, judgmental, and condescending, leading Dorian to become rather bitter toward him. And in the end, the thing that sets him free is dealing with his anger, rather than his father. 

He has a moment of realization at the end, when it hits him how much of an effect his father's judgment has had on him, and how much the resulting anger has made him miserable.

Speaking about his father, he says something to the effect of: "You know the one worst thing my father did to me? He convinced me it mattered what people think of you. And truth is, they never think quite enough."

This hit close to home. The anger and resentment that he talked about was all too familiar. And it's for the same reason. I care way too much what people think of me. And because I do, I even project what I think people would think of me, if they knew the whole truth about me. The result is anger and lashing out in order to protect my vulnerability.

And I'm tired of it.

I'm tired of being frustrated and angry at people. I'm tired of yelling at people on the road, emotionally separating myself from people in class. And most of all, I'm tired of keeping myself away from any and all family to protect myself. Because I have a right to a family, and I shouldn't have to put on the armor to go to a family party.

I know where this stems from. I was talking with my therapist over a month ago when we finally pierced through the shell I'd spent months forming around myself. I broke down. I wept. And it felt wonderful. At the end of the session, I knew that I had not resolved my issues with my parents as well as I had thought. 

A couple weeks ago, I went on a vacation to San Diego with my parents and siblings. Having realized my need for resolution and peacemaking with my parents, I looked forward to the trip. I also hoped to meet up with a friend who has been there for me so much as I have been dealing with my sexuality. 

It was Easter Sunday, and out first full day in San Diego. My friend and I planned to attend the Easter program at a cathedral downtown and then see the sights. I mentioned this to my mother the night before, but in the chaos of the evening not much attention was paid to it. In the morning as I was getting ready, she interrogated me, and found out the details: it wasn't an LDS service, my friend was gay, we'd met at a Moho Party. I could see the irritation fall onto her face just before she said "I don't agree with it, but it's your life."

I went anyway, because I needed to get away from them. I had a very nice time. The service was beautiful. San Diego was warm and bright. And spending time in the company of such a good friend was refreshing. And I even made it back to the hotel room before my family got back from their service. So, all was good, and like usual, we didn't discuss it.

Later in the week, I wanted to meet up with this friend for dinner. I found an evening when my family was doing nothing other than relaxing in the hotel room after a day at the beach. It was perfect: I would get to see my friend, and  wouldn't be robbing them of family vacation time. 

I told my mother that I wanted to go out that night with the same friend. I saw that same irritated face as she said "Talk to your father."

I finished getting ready and met my mother and father on the couch. I could feel that familiar tension in my stomach as I sat down. This wasn't going to be good. I told my dad that I wanted to go out with this friend, and asked if he had any objections. He turned his gaze from the tv, but didn't bring it all the way around to me. "Ty, I really don't feel good about this," he said. A serious, almost bishop-like tone filled the place in his voice where it was normally light hearted and joking.

I explained. I trusted this guy. I'd met him before. Nothing bad is going to happen. 

"Try to think about this, Ty. We planned this trip around your schedule so that you could come with us. Then you skip church on Easter Sunday to be with a friend instead of your family. And the fact that this friend is a part of the lifestyle you're choosing doesn't please us either." 

I understood about the family time, thing. That would be the case no matter who the friend was. And passing on church with the family. That probably didn't feel good for them, seeing the empty spot on the sacrament bench and imagining it as an empty spot in heaven. 

But then the "lifestyle" I'm choosing. I thought it pretty ironic, because in terms of gay mindset, I think myself extremely conservative. I want a home, a marriage, a family. I want a career. I want to be a part of a church community and to serve within that community. I don't care for gay bars or clubs. I'm so completely not "A" list that I barely even know what that means. Essentially, I want the same life I wanted before I came to terms with my attraction. Just, switch the sex of the person I'm with. 

I tried explaining that to some degree, but to no avail. I could feel the disapproval weighing down on my chest, making it difficult to breathe. And it began clouding my logic so I could barely even defend my point of view. It was the shaming powers my parents have had all my life, even if they don't realize they have it. Their disapproval crushes me, and robs my self-worth.

Even so, I tried to stand my ground, defend my position, weakly though it may have been. This just raised the temperature of the room, until my dear mother snapped.

Hell hath no fury like a woman's scorn. And for a woman who only knows how to react to vulnerability by bottling up or getting angry, that scorn is especially fierce. 

I'll spare you the details of it, partially because it's besides the point, and partially because I don't think I've un-repressed the memory enough to completely remember what she said. But the just of it was this:
  • through prayer, she'd received the answer that sin is sin, and that she cannot tolerate it.
  • my attraction is not legitimate; I apparently had a hard time on my mission, had my heart broken, and sought companionship elsewhere because it hurt too much. (I fought back on that one, pointing out that she could never feel comfortable in the arms of a woman, no matter how hurt she was. It isn't about heartbreak.)
  • I cannot be saved if I keep pursuing this lifestyle
  • eventually the gays will persecute the church
Don't ask me where that last one came from. It was just as random and out of the blue as it sounds.

She said I couldn't argue with her, because she's read a lot of books on this. I asked which ones. She couldn't think of titles off the top of her head. I asked if she read the one I sent her (No More Goodbyes). An expression of control crossed her face as she said "Yes, and it was awful." 

That one hurt. In all the loneliness, in all the isolation and self-hatred, no one had been there to wrap their arms around me and tell me they loved me. But through that book I could almost feel loving and protecting arms around me. It wasn't a book of "you're not good enough." It was simply "I love you." And my mother thought it was awful.

My father made the point to tell her here that Carol Lynn's first book was different, and that diffused my mother to a degree. Still, she thought it awful that all these families were changing their beliefs in order to excuse their child's behavior. But I never asked her to change her beliefs. In fact, I want her to retain her faith as much as possible. I just wanted her to love me.

The conversation went on, that crushing weight bringing me low in my seat. I couldn't look at them. I felt the misery building in me, but the shame wouldn't let me cry. They told me that they couldn't sleep because of this. That this was the most awful trial they'd ever had to go through. Even my brother, whose kidneys are failing, who goes to dialysis three times a week in order to live, who is waiting for a kidney transplant and will have health implications from it for the rest of his life doesn't compare to this, they said. We make jokes about his kidney problems, they said. 

That one hurt, too. I am the most painful thing they've ever experienced. I tried to speak of my own pain. Of the misery I felt. Of the trials I had experienced, but they were usually brushed aside. I told my mother, who thinks she knows my entire psychological persona through prayer, that I have never felt I could trust them with personal and emotional parts of myself, and so how would she know who I was, or what I'd been through? I don't tell her anything, and she knows nothing. 

A knock at the door was my salvation. My mother's old friend from San Diego was here, and I could escape her presence. My dad took me into his bedroom while my mom opened the door to greet her friend. 

As soon as the door was closed he turned to me and said, "let me diffuse a little of the emotion. I didn't want to get into all this tonight. But you know your mother." He came up to me and wrapped his arms around me. And then the tears came. To say that I wept would be a gross understatement. I bawled. My entire body shook and my tears came out in massive sobs. I felt my legs get weak, and had he not been holding me, I would have fallen to the floor. I was being crushed to death by my own parents.

When I regained my composure to a small degree we talked. My father tends to be the more emotionally in-tune out of my parents, and thus doesn't feel compelled to resort to anger when he feels vulnerable. Never once did he raise his voice. Neither was he prone to attacking or condemning accusations. That said, his disapproval is more subtle as well, which makes it difficult to sort from truth.

We talked about a lot. I was able to express myself a bit better. He still didn't budge on the issue. Though, at one point he said "if it weren't for the eternal ramifications of this I would have dropped it long ago." So it seems his only concern is God's disapproval. While I find definitive evidence of this disapproval hard to come by, I can accept his position. It's better than any other stance he could take.

We talked of life choices, of the possibility of being celibate. We talked of my boyfriend and the part he had played in all this. I told my father with strong resolution that if it were not for my boyfriend, my life would have been ruined by now. I was too weak in the early days to have resisted things that would have destroyed me.

My dad told me of the anger he felt toward my boyfriend. Though in all fairness, I don't think he realizes the degree to which it takes two people to make a relationship. If my boyfriend has any blame, then I have just as much.

I told him about the awful night when they drove down to Provo to force me out of the closet, and how it is the one event I wish I could erase from my life. (Though this experience pulls a close second). 

He still doesn't budge much doctrinally. He defended President Packer in his infamous talk last October. He defended President Kimball in his recommendation to hundreds of young gay men to marry women and they'd be fixed ("I seriously doubt that's the only instruction he gave them"). And he defends the concept of man/woman salvation as if there were no possible other way. The thought doesn't even occur to him that if God said it was so, there's be a perfectly logical explanation. The Doctrine and Covenants doesn't hold the entirety of the plan of salvation, and I cannot help but believe just because I don't see how something could be, that He can't.

It's funny. The way he and my mom talk to me about this, it's as if they're trying to get me to change before it's too late. As if there's a point of no return, or an expiration date on my potential straightness. But their attitude of "you need to do it now" irritates me. This life is the time to prepare to meet God, and I need to learn and grow and experience to figure out just what that preparation entails. And right now, that means being in a relationship. 

So, while my talk with my dad didn't change his view much, at least he listened. And he expressed a desire to listen more. I told him that if he wanted to be there for me, he needed to be more available, and he needed to shut up and listen. We'll see how things go in the future.

After we finished talking he went out to greet my mother's friend, and I talked to both my friend from San Diego, and my boyfriend on the phone. My friend was very consoling and helpful, (as his blog ever continues to be) and from the conversation with him I knew even more that I just wasn't going to get direction or answers on this issue from the church. It's not going to happen. Not in the time frame that I need them. The culminating point in all this was that I need to ask God.

But I have a hard time with that. I ask, but I haven't asked while really wanting to know the answer. Because I'm afraid of the answer. As my friend put it, "part of you is going to have to be sacrificed." And that's going to hurt. 

I'm trying to be ready to ask and mean it. And I'm trying to let the shame and rejection from my parents heal. The entire day following that fiasco with my parents was a numb day. I was just there, floating from place to place with my family. I felt little emotion over anything. It improved as the vacation drew to a close. My mother came up both that night and the following morning and hugged me and apologized for how she had acted. That was a start. But the hurt isn't gone.

When I got home, my boyfriend came over. It was so surreal to see him, to have those arms again. I had to step back and just look at him for a bit, to make sure he was real. I had to break through the numbness, but it took time. 

I remember laying with his arms around me that evening. It felt so wonderful to have his warm body wrapped around mine. I just had to ask myself, why? Why is this so wrong? I do not understand, and no one has been able to explain it to me, especially in a calm and unhateful way. 

I saw my family again on mother's day. I went up to my aunt's house for the big family dinner. I found myself nervous as I walked up the driveway, and when I walked in I was suddenly very aware of the walls I was protecting myself with. My parents were there, and they were sweet. Things were like they were before, as they always are on the surface. But beneath it all I could feel the hidden wound, still fresh from our vacation. I love my parents. But I find myself pulling away from them, because I don't want to get hurt. But even the pulling away hurts, because I miss them. I miss being a part of a family.

When I pray I have made a point lately to ask for healing and for greater love for others. I'm tired of the anger and the resentment. It's like an infection in the wound, keeping me in pain and keeping it from healing. I'm trying to learn to forgive, but it can be so difficult. But I'm reminded of the sermon I heard Easter morning in a beautiful cathedral. The sermon was on the atonement in our lives. The preacher said that as we face the seemingly insurmountable difficulties in our lives, we need to tell ourselves "I can't. God can. I'll let him." 

And I really can't carry this anymore. I'm getting too weary. So I'm trying to let God carry it for me. Sometimes the unaccepting judgmental God of my youth creeps in, making it harder to open my heart to him. But in those sweet moments, when mortal opinion falls away, I feel the reality of his all-loving nature. It's then that I can let go of the pain and the anger. It's then that I can lay down with peace and truly rest. And it's then that I can find a loving haven in this chaotic world. 

I am so incredibly grateful for those moments. Even more, I am grateful that out of all the people that have been affected by this aspect of my life, my God is the one who has never left or abandoned me. He is merciful to me, even when others would limit his mercy. He is loving, when others would limit his love. And he is changing me as he sees wise, when others would define what his design is for me.

I love him. And I trust him

Friday, May 13, 2011

The Great Laptop Famine is Over!

It was late March when I noticed something odd about my laptop. I had turned it on, but nothing was happening. "That's odd," I thought. I turned it off, then switched it back on, and it booted up like normal.

That day began the beginning of the end for my laptop. Over the next couple weeks it took more tries to get it to boot up, until finally, it was gone. RIP HPdv2.

Murphy made his entrance with his usual impeccable timing, throwing about his law of "what ever bad thing can happen, will happen, and at the most inopportune moment." My laptop died just in time for finals to begin.

Until yesterday, when my new laptop arrived, I had been ostracized from the online world, except for what I could glean from my phone or the computers on campus. But as I basked in the light of computer screen yesterday afternoon, I realized that there were some things about my internet exile that I don't want to lose.

First, without the random distractions of surfing the net, I had a ton of extra time. I got a lot of things done. My room is clean and organized. The kitchen is spotless. And I've gotten more out of my leisure time.

Secondly, I rediscovered my books. I love reading. But with college classes and Facebook addictions time really gets used up quick. Without those distractions I poured myself into some pretty rewarding books. And I want to keep that.

Lastly, I had so much more time to think. I don't know what it is about the computer, but something in its ethereal glow shuts off a part of the mind. It induces a daze-like state. Especially if a person is just wandering about the internet out of boredom. It pulls a person away from the real world, and even worse, away from themselves.

Now, I'm not raising up against computers and the internet. Trust me, coming home to an HP package in front of my door yesterday induced child-like glee. But I think that when we expect the internet to become our sole means of entertainment, social interaction, education, and exploration we miss out on the very things around us that can open our eyes to new and exciting ideas. Being away from the distraction of the internet allowed me to observe, to think, and to reawaken creative sides of my character that had drifted to sleep in the past.

Because of this, I now intend to use my computer as a tool, and not a life support system. That way my computer becomes a means of enhancing my daily life, rather than consuming it.

Anyway, I just thought I'd share some of my experiences of digital "homelessness" and say that, at last, I'm back.

Black Notebook #1

So, this semester I bought a small black notebook for my classes. In the end it became a place I stored my thoughts and creativity rather than a place for notes. But it has been a very good thing for me to have.

I want to start recording some of the things I wrote here on my blog. I'm just going to go chronologically through the book, a couple entries every pot. So here's black notebook blog post #1.


Where are you?
I search your face but can't find you.
Where once was surety,
now is weariness.
I wait,
nervous that your legs will fail you.
You were once strong and certain,
experienced and in control.
But now your grip is weak in my hand.
Did your strength leave you,
or did I fall in love with a dream?

Who am I?
I search my soul
and come up with fragments over and over.
I barely understand the things I find.
Are they even real?
Or are they remnants of a lonely mind?
I lay my heart out time and time again,
straining to decipher its beat
and find what it truly needs.
Is doubt to be found everywhere?
Why does satisfaction elude me?

Where have you gone?
Have you abandoned us all?
Why have you left us this way?
It seems with age you recoil from us,
or perhaps we simply see that you
were never really here.
That you are a myth.
I've lived the doctrine that goodness
hastens your arrival,
yet it seems you are too apprehensive
to leave divine hand.
Help us.
Save us.
Bring us peace.

Open my eyes.
Grant me view of my own heart.
Relieve the pain of uncertainty.
Set our feet on solid ground,
and send us elusive satisfaction.