headphones on, singing along

I’m sitting on my bed, laundry folded at the end atop my twisted white sheets. I’m listening to the Jim Croce songs I’ve heard my dad sing before. They’re smart, sometimes sad, but not wallowing—trying to get up after a fall—songs, and the guitar is brilliant in its subtle complexity. Not unusual, I’m also thinking about M., though she’s not the only one. I’ve got a hunch that there may be some other people in my life who—now or in the future—will want to leave, get out of the friendship, relationship—whatever—because of Jesus. Will make me wonder if there ever was something, some connection between us—or whether it was all imagined.

Isn’t that the way that they say it goes,
Well, let’s forget all that, and give me the number if you can find it
So I can call just to tell ‘em I’m fine and to show
I’ve overcome the blow, learned to take it well—

Truth is, Jesus makes people uncomfortable sometimes. Sometimes it’s hard to stay on the fence when He’s around. Sometimes people will want to run away. And my heart hurts about it. I don’t think it’s about M. only that I’m feeling this way. It’s the music, but I think the Father is pretty torn up about his prodigal people too.

I only wish my words could just convince myself...
That it just wasn’t real, but that’s not the way it feels.

Sometimes I think I make big mistakes in my representation of the truth, the gospel. I’m worried people will get the wrong idea—or will get upset at Christianity because they think that my (poor) representation is what it’s really like in the Church, or with the Lord. But we do what we can; we ask the Lord to fill in, fix or cover up our blunder-some selves, and we pray that people would seek the truth and find it. Isn’t that all there is?

Operator, oh, could you help me place this call?
Cause I can’t read the number that you just gave me.
There’s something in my eyes. You know it happens every time
I think about the love that I thought would save me.

I’d been praying for M. as I fell asleep the other night—hoping that maybe I’d have some kind of dream to confirm her well-being or give me some sense of peace about her. I awoke in the morning, having been in a crammed van with M. and some others of various nationalities. It wasn’t the reunion I would have liked. Of course it was awkward—and I felt so unreal, with a (Christian-feeling) cheerful smile and speech, trying to point out all the interesting places in Thailand or Bolivia—some country she’d never seen before. She spoke little to me, or at all. Every time I heard her mutter something under her breath, I asked what she’d said and her response, “Your loss,” seemed telling of some kind of inner dissatisfaction. Who knows—who really knows us at all?

Isn’t that the way that they say it goes,
Well, let’s forget all that, and give me the number if you can find it
So I can call just to tell ‘em I’m fine and to show
I’ve overcome the blow, learned to take it well—
I only wish my words could just convince myself
That it just wasn’t real, but that’s not the way it feels.

So, let me shake the dust. Again and again and again. People will never complete me.

Operator, oh, let’s forget about this call.
There’s no one there I really wanted to talk to.
Thank you for your time, oh you've been so much more than kind…