I Do Believe in Jesus

Communications of rationalizations. Hours upon hours filled with words. Words from the page. Words from the screen. Words from the mouth. Words from the phone. Are they ALL heard? Don't any of those words slip into a black hole somewhere, never to be heard, never to be read? I don't think so. My God is big enough to hear them all and read them all.

On average women say 7,000 words per day. Men say just over 2000. So far I have spoken at least 6,875,000 words according to that average. I bet you I have spoken twice that many words. I have probably written at least half that much, too.

I saw another shooting star tonight, out of the corner of my eye. One star fell, one word spoken. Every time someone says, "I don't believe in fairies" a fairy, supposedly, falls dead. Poor little bastards. Who made up that stupid rule? Well, I DON'T believe in fairies. I'm a fairy killer.

I do believe in Jesus. I can't even bring myself to write the words of disbelief in Him. I know better. Will He fall dead? That's a laugh. Will I fall dead if I utter those words? No. But He hears them and I don't talk shit about those I love.

Why do I believe in Jesus Christ as the Son of God and Savior of my life? Because I have seen the change in me, from my point of view. Others have seen it in me, too. But I could have made the change 'manifest' by choosing to believe it. It could be ALL me! "Hey, baby! It's all you! It's all good! You ARE a god, didn't you know?" Me? A god? I made this happen? I don't believe in Diana. I don't believe in Diana. I don't believe in Diana. I don't...

I don't. I never did. I didn't plan on living to be 25 years old. Yet, they say, I am a god. Am I a god? I get out of bed in the morning for God (me?) and feed my body for God(me?). I breathe in and out for God(me?). No, not me. God. God the Father who came as man to pay for my sins. The Creator of all this...

God says, "Where were you when I created the earth? Tell me, since you know so much! Who decided on its size? Certainly you'll know that! Who came up with the blueprints and measurements?
"Do you know the first thing about death? Do you have one clue regarding death's dark mysteries?
"Do you have an arm like God's, and can your voice thunder like his? Then adorn yourself with glory and splendor, and clothe yourself in honor and majesty. Unleash the fury of your wrath! Look at every proud man and bring him low. Look at every proud man and humble him, crush the wicked where they stand. Bury them all in the dust together; shroud their faces in the grave. Then I myself will admit to you that your own right hand can save you."

I reply, "Surely I spoke of things I did not understand, things too wonderful for me to know."

I can't know. So I believe.


Writings Then and Now

"Lord grant me weak eyes for things that are of no account and strong eyes for all thy truth." -Soren Kierkegaard

The following was written from my room in North Hollywood about March/April 2003 A.D.:

'Collapsed to the floor, face on the ground, tears making mud on my cheeks. I hide my face with trembling hands and beat my chest with anguish and wonder at the glory of a Creator. When it's supernatural to us it is natural to Him...here is where we learn to define ourselves in a language too confusing for words. I suppose that if we can write it or say it then we don't truly understand it...I am finding in my new faith that I am not afraid of Death or Satan, I am only aware of them.'
days later, I wrote:

'The Lord's my mind, my heart given over to Him. His glory is me. I will stand in His love never blown over by the torrents this world has. The enemy has the violent hate and deceit, yet I transform in His love. A giant newborn star and glowing as a chrysalis I will burst forth in splendor. Just now I am an egg swirling in the shell like a million brilliant colors..'

Today I dosed myself with coffee and wrote this outside in the wind:
'I have a very active inner life. I talk to myself, sing to myself, listen to my own speaking voice as I converse with others. This is starting to sound a little neurotic, but perhaps it's ingenious. There is a quote I recall that goes something like, madness and genious are bedfellows. I could do very well amongst coffee, cigarettes, and college professors. I could do very well with the fatherless children of the lost. I have mingled and danced with the light extremes of logic and insanity. Mild forms of eccentric, lazy artists have often found comfort in my company. I notice the hidden compassion in the most timid of people. My insights penetrate even the most thick facades. Maybe that is why music is my blood. Honest wails of questioning souls appeal to my own vulnerabilities. Somehow I haven't embraced my own desire for disciplining these same expressions.
The puzzles in my adjectives are only solved by the most patient. Some people just don't have time,energy, or care to discern me amongst the words I use. I admire them and look up to them. Some enjoy the challenge. Those are the ones with whom I melt into and rest with...
Euphoria is hard to come by. Desire is running in and out of the exit door. She can't decide if she's coming or going.
Immortalize my thoughts, oh God. This way I am made in Your image and even through my unspoken, unwritten acts of love. The power behind the silence of wisdom is a mysterious responsibility. Every word will be paid for in eternity. I will answer, perhaps, to my sarcasms and idle ramblings.
"Live the dreams in your tangled brain," they say, with encouraging half-smiles. "Chase your glorious, multi-colored tail because you don't know that you'll bit your own ass." Entertainment is a spectator's sport.
Only the God of miracles could perform the impossible feat of restoring my true genius (madness?) to me. This God who births men out of dust and women out of ribs and Who raises the dead. This God who shouts love in a whisper. This God of paradox who baffles kings and brings heros to shame.
You are my Father. You adopted me and call me Your own. That I should be chosen and priveleged, I am stunned into paralysis with my worship of You. A bride and a sister of Your only begotten Son. It is more family than I could have ever hoped for...'


Getting Off Goliath

I often relate to the men in the bible more than the women. I am the Prodigal Son covered in pig funk and God runs to me and kisses my filthy neck. I am Stephen standing up to lecture the crowd. I am Paul in front of the Sanhedrin having faith that the Holy Spirit will give me the words I need. I am David, but I am a tripped out version of David...

There's Goliath in all his fury and strength. What would Diana do? Run and jump on his back! Thank God for second chances. There is a difference between brave and stupid. David grabbed a rock and with the precision of a miracle it sunk into Goliath's temple putting him down. The specific guidance of the Holy Spirit taught him and prepared him for that moment. What if he had thought of himself as a wrestler as I do?

My mom and I recently went to Six Flags Magic Mountain. There is this ride called Goliath that has a 255 ft. drop at 85mph. What a rush. That is my life. Just before it hits the ground with a fatal crash it curves ever so gently upward soon to be a gravity-defying spiral, etc. What a rush. But ultimately the train pulls back into the station and it's time to get off. Not for me. It seems as though my ass is glued to the seat of this ride. "One more time!" I yell to the operator. Here I go, going nowhere at 85mph just because I can.

Lord knows it's time for me to get off this ride and get off this giant. I'll pick up my water bottle and camera and leave the damn theme park with some great memories and a little nausea. I'll land in the ancient dust and hear the voice of God tell me which rock to pick up. I can't do much until I learn to live in each day, solid and with an actual starting point. The ride is over, now I must defeat the giant.