Why am I here?


I don’t mean the existential/philosophical/metaphysical/spiritual sense of the question.  The answer to that is readily found in the WORD of GOD, and that is:  we were made to bring Glory to GOD.  You can do your own Bible study on that if you should choose to accept the mission.

Why am I here, again, with nothing to say?  Who can answer that but GOD only?  I got a gander at one of my lesser-used recipe boxes and felt a little sorry for it.  So I stacked them and photographed them.  The photo gave me great comfort.  I wasn’t experiencing a noticeable abundance of comfort’s antonym, but I received the blessing of the comfort nonetheless.

So I began pondering the lives of my recipe boxes.  They hadn’t gathered together in a very long time, and they must have felt at least a tiny sense of loneliness for familiar company.  They must have, in the many years since this gathering, reached back into their memories and fondly recalled their long hours–after Grande Feasts–of talking to and enjoying one another, hashing out all the problems of the world over some strong, black Coffee and indulgent Pastries.  “May the hair on your toes never fall out,” rings as the final toast before they gather their meandering children, pack the station wagon, and trek back home.

I used to read weird stuff by weird people, creative people, people who wrote weird words, and I’d think, ‘I like this.  It makes me comfortable.  It makes me think that my thinking isn’t quite so…_________.’  Something.  I couldn’t put my finger on that something and give it a name.

But then I would get scared and think, ‘What if they run out?  What if their coolness, their weirdness runs out?  What if they could no longer have their piece of this weirdness pie, filter their thoughts through this weirdness sieve, gleaning just the right amount of weirdness from that which NORMAL people discard?  What would happen to them then?  Will they become just like Timmy and Jonny and Tina and Jolene?’

I have no doubt that the Creative Flow is available always.  If I can see the canned-pea metallic green 1968 Vista Cruiser in which the metal recipe box drove his family home, smell the Purina Chicken Chow in the cargo area, hear the Lou Rawls song playing on the AM radio, see the hole poked in the back seat when that deer’s antlers….   I have no doubt that I’ll NEVER BE NORMAL; I needn’t fear ever becoming like Timmy and Jonny and Tina and Jolene.

The CREATOR of CREATIVITY, WHO called me Beloved from before the foundation of the world, HE calls me still.  HIS FOUNT canNOT run dry.  I’m in the RiverS of Living Water.  Rivers being plural, Water singular.  There are many rivers, Timmy, Jonny, Tina, Jolene, Beloved, and You.  There is only ONE WATER, ONE SOURCE of all the Good that exists, and HE speaks to each of us–if we’re willing to listen.


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s