It has long been said that there are people who know that they are the One that live in caves in the remote regions of the world. I am here to reveal a little known secret. I live in a suburban cave. It is easily done. Just tick the box before birth that says: I choose to live the life of the One among the many in solitude, and voila, you are born into seclusion. That’s how it happened for me, or so I like to think.
My seclusion is enforced by a strict spiritual law. Birds of a feather flock together. And apparently my feather is unlike any others. What a frickin’ relief. Thank you, Jesus.
Jesus was a man of sorrows and I have been a woman of that persuasion. My tomb has been made of cedar siding and I reside in it comfortably, sharing it with assorted birds, squirrels and the occasional raccoon. They all leave their calling cards, chewed on boards and the like. But inside, the peace rages like a mighty cleansing fire. And silence rings through the rafters (along with the TV, truth be told.)
So here I follow my calling. What is it, you may well be asking? I am never quite sure what it is, only THAT it is. So I stumble forward, one word at a time entered in the Mac, certain that some of you are receiving me loud and clear. It is for you I write.
In This Hermitage
In this hermitage I have spent 8 years caring for the dying. My own daughter and husband. Let that sink in. Oh, I have written it many times but suddenly I want it to blaze like a fire, want it to burn up any last shreds of guilt I have about how I live my life.
God said in unspoken words (He uses sign language). I will be taking your daughter and then your husband. You and your son will be okay; it will be a long-lasting purification, however. I will be with you. I will turn you into a writer. Something like a psalmist. You will write for me as best you can, through your afflictions and forward into peace. You will testify to your own failures so I can heal them. Speak the truth.
And I have.