weekend fragments

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I remember getting mad at God when he asked me to obey and I did and I ended up getting my heart broken because I did the right thing. It turns out that happens a lot. Jesus called his disciples straight into a storm and asked them to trust him. In the end he calmed the storm. He’s still calling and calming.

We sing a new song in church I’ve never heard before called “Defender,” originally performed by Francesca Battistelli and Steffany Gretzinger (I guess? One can never be too sure with these worship songs that get re-recorded all the time). I almost cry because, as frustrating as it is to admit, I’m still struggling with lingering symptoms from the scary levels of depression I experienced this summer. Between this song and the sermon on Mark 4:35-41, Jesus beckons me to be still. He beckons me to trust my healing in his hands. He beckons me to surrender the lies and the darkness to his sword. He beckons me to give him all my broken pieces. It’ll be okay.

When I thought I lost me
You knew where I left me
— defender

My forehead hurts from frowning so much.

There is a cricket singing his heart out from within the abandoned couch cushions in the basement. He’s safe. He’s warm. The rolling washers and dryers provide a nice bass line to his lilting melodies. I would join him if I weren’t so afraid of strangers walking down the stairs.

If I buy a men’s J. Crew sweater from the thrift store for $6 I don’t even bother looking at the washing instructions. Those things can withstand any wash and any heat. Women’s sweaters, on the other hand, cannot. Men’s sweaters are therefore objectively better.

I splurge on blackberries from Mariano’s and they’re the best blackberries I’ve ever had.

I wish I could write poetry. I haven’t written poetry in months and I can’t seem to get it right. Instead I have these fragments of incomplete thoughts and vague vignettes that could never come together and qualify as a “good” essay simply because they’re fragmented and incomplete. But I suppose writing something is better than writing nothing at all.

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