Ashes for Beauty

I feel the need to write, but I have no clue what to write about.

Brenda and I exchanged text messages this morning while I was walking the dog. She sounds concerned about me.

Hell, I’m concerned about me... and my sons.

We are in the hotel room in Newport. I'm in the boys' room. Brenda had reserved a room for them and one for she and I. It isn't much fun being in that room alone.

The boys are watching TV. They don’t want to do anything, they would rather be home. The idea of us being there while she picks up her stuff sounds worse.

We brought the peach and pumpkin pies Brenda made before she left.

Just as we were heading out from Canby a pair of jays flew out in front of the van. The trailing one tried to reverse direction and the van hit it a glancing blow. I saw it fluttering in my review mirror. It managed to hop across the road dodging traffic headed the other way. I wonder if it will be OK. I’d hate to think that one of that mated pair will die.

Yesterday was pretty rough at church. There were a lot of people, of course, Easter Sunday and all. I felt pretty conspicuous sitting there beside Jeremiah, no Brenda, no Mary (Brenda’s mom who usually goes with us, but had stayed up late the night before with Jehovah Witnesses), Isaac sitting on the other side of the room with friends.

I did my best to worship, to concentrate. I took my glasses off, as usual, shut my eyes, as usual, lifted my hands and worshipped, as usual, the words sank in, tears flowed down my cheeks...

Trade these ashes in for beauty
And wear forgiveness like a crown
Coming to kiss the feet of mercy
I lay every burden down
At the foot of the cross

I really want to lay this burden down. I really want to trade these ashes for beauty. I really want to kiss the feet of mercy.

My head tells me that what I’m doing is right. She had an affair 13 years ago. I forgave her. She started another a year ago. I forgave her, she ended it. She started it up again. My head tells me that I can not trust her. Even my heart says I can’t trust her.

Still, I gave her my heart, I gave her my fidelity. I thought she had done the same.

This is a hell of a post. Moping in a hotel room, thinking of a bird struck by my van as it flew with its mate, recalling tears in church.

The church is creating a photo directory. I emailed the guy taking the pictures. Told him that I would like to retake that photo with just me and the boys in it. I don’t want a picture of the four of us smiling in a directory that will be around for years.

I really want to write something inspiring. I really want to connect my head and my heart and my spirit to spiritual truths and show that I can stride through the crap in my life without getting my pants dirty.

I suppose it helps to write. Just write. Writing helps me process. It is the way I think. It helps me make those connections, the ones between my head, heart, spirit, and truth.

I know this isn’t a very pleasing, or perhaps interesting, post to read, but this little corner of the internet is also my journal, a record of my thoughts, and this mish mash of emotions and feelings belongs here just as much as the pithy words of spiritual epiphanies.