Truncatedly yours, lost control

Sitting on the train, beginning my two hour commute as the voice overhead cautions “surveillance” and good travels. Brussels was a little too close to home, I suppose. But so much pain in so much of the world; perhaps all our flags should be black.

I just told my brother, that for all the awfulness and heartache we grieve for, facing pain and sacrificing well brings a beauty others see.

I lost a little of that vision this weekend; more than a little, as the promise of death defeated and life everlasting seemed too distant, too abstract. There was a Man who walked the loneliest road for your freedom and mine and all creation, but news that John has a two day week and I have no part of it because vagabond life threw me somewhat off kilter. It took a dogged conversation me making him frustrated and some bible reading together before I came to my senses. I suppose couples have different off days- does one take it apart from another? Anything is possible, I suppose- but in honesty, I have little center right now; little normal or reference. Sometimes things upset me but I can’t explain myself; something feels all wrong but when I’m already seated upside down, who can say what should be? 

I don’t want to sit upside down and I don’t want these crumpled feelings – it comes to me that I am struggling (still) with control lost, lost control. Each time life serves up another unexpected change or an uncertain one, helplessness knocks on my door and squats on the doorstep all over again. I don’t like helplessness; he makes me angry and scared.

For this reason I am in equal parts impressed and perplexed by John, who moves on unperturbed regardless x event triggering yours truly. I want him to react, because to me that means event matters to him too. But most times he doesn’t, and I am confounded, which spins upside down me- as if sitting on my head for three months now isn’t draining enough. Why doesn’t he react, why does he not feel what I feel? What is normal, or isn’t? So little reference.

I would like to know what’s proper, and what isn’t, so I can respond appropriately. Be upset when I should, and sensible all other times. I would like some calibration.

Can anyone tell me? Where does courage and well sacrifice come in- regardless? Or avec differentiation?

I’m going to end with questions; I never had an answer anyway.

I qi gonged tonight, in a room of middle-aged french ladies, in a language I couldn’t comprehend

http://thesmartlocal.com/read/food-factories – to go one day, one day when things are normal again. Or perhaps even if they aren’t.

Soon it will be April, printemps, le season de fleurs. Aussi, the bientôt conclusion of my wandering among strangers. Peut-être, je serai voyagé avec amis. Puis, seul. Nous va voir. Je serai contente quand cette est fini.

Je mange trop beaucoup, trop vit ce soir. Beetroot salad (at least, what I think it was- my very earnest host pronounced it ‘beatle juice’, the italien rice- what is it- ricodo? ricaso? not pilaf, not couscous. Picasso. Anyway- cheese and fruit after. All very nice, and washed down  afterward with some infusion I didn’t quite have the space for. My stomach sounds like multiple pipes going all at once now- gurgling and shooting stars flying around within. Meanwhile a cat sleeps on my lap. I can’t read cats.

‘help us not to fear the pain and darkness that ends at Easter,’ he prayed on Sunday. C’est vrai, il y a mal et sombre, mais il y a Jésus, et le esprit (希望?) of His glory. Easter is coming!

 

There is a resting place for me

I just ate 4 slices of a pizza I ordered; it’s all quite probable that a body can survive with bits and broken phrases; but I’d like to thrive. Or really, hold a conversation. A surviving body gets lonely otherwise.

This body has also made it through, by the love of God and the saints, what would otherwise have been a horridly difficult weekend. Chicken, prawn curry, fish sambal and beehoon goreng have gone into this stomach and out. Plenty of Skype helps too.

Friday night I prayed aloud to remember that for all the awfulness of a punishing weekend, the gospel is bigger and the story of Jesus Christ rising from the dead to redeem the world, stands unchanged. His story covers mine- his narrative precedes, proceeds and supersedes mine. When my chapter is tumultuous, it can rest on his. My story can always rest on his.

A cat has just clambered off my bed, after biting on my charger. My nails underneath feel thick with cat dust and grime, but I hesitate from walking to the sink because the door to the kitchen is closed because le mari fermer la porte parce que my laundry sounds like a kid threw a giant lego piece in with my clothes. With God, and children, all things are possible. There were a lot of kids here today.

And on my bed. Dirty, muddy, hands legs bodies mouths socks shoes. I’ll probably sleep where my feet have usually been, tonight; that area was fully covered by two blankets, at least. At least it’s just 3 sleeps left.

After this, I’ll wash my hands, peel an orange, wash my hands again and likely open Memrise for french. Learning a language is hard going and I doubt I’ve made much headway. By 2230hrs I’ll call mon mari and hope he answers.

Juste trois dormi avant je départ.