I turn on the light. A small, brown, almost translucent cricket is wandering over my rail. Flying bugs emerge from the shadows, lanky limbs making them seem larger than their real mass. A small moth sits along the edge of the window, blending in with the browns, looking like a large speck of paint. I wouldn’t notice it at all, except for the fact I know that large speck was not there yesterday, or earlier today.

The crowds are gone, leaving in the afternoon, leaving only the sound of wind to massage my soul, strong wind, pouring through the valleys, over the hills, roaring like the ocean. The oaks, full of leaves now, rattle in the wind, giving a texture to the whoosh.

It was Memorial Day, the day when we remember those who died so that others might live better. There is evil in this world, and sometimes it takes all we have in order to give it pause, our hope being that this present existence is not the whole story.

Not too long ago it occured to me I am not reading like I used to. I used to be a voracious reader. To be sure I am spending a significant more time writing. Somehow, my zeal for reading, my patience in it, has been lost. Or, for the first time in memory there is not a reading list for me. Nothing is on the horizon. Though I remember back to after my undergrad years. I was working at the Post Office, a fine temporary job, paying me well, helping me on my way. Something bit me, and I ordered the ante-nicene fathers, then quit the job so I could devote myself to reading them.

That wasn’t a responsible decision. I’m not sure I’ve made a responsible decision since then. At least not according to the ways of this world.

Dreams of law school drifted away in the texts of Ignatius, and Clement, and Hermas, and of course, Tertullian.

That was 1999. A year and a half after I finished school, I leaped back into the texts which very few people, I later learned, ever read — even though they establish the foundation of our faith, second only to Scripture.

The bright spot of today was I delved into reading for longer than usual. It helped that the wind was blowing, and I could sit on a comfortable chair on my balcony with the book, losing myself in the thoughts. I’m excited about the reading, because it is something I’ve been meaning to read for a while. Gibbon’s Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire. I know, a history guy like me, not having read this before is a great shame. I’ve no excuses… other than those reading lists of before.

Volume one, of six, is almost done, and I love it. Very good writing, and interesting insights on the early church.

Might just have to take a peek at the Fathers again soon. Who knows, last time I got back into reading like this I went on to Seminary.

Now, I just hope to write, and learn without the burden of little pieces of paper chasing me around. Much larger worlds await, too large for a single lifetime.

It was a winding path today, a path from confusion to light, and back again. Memorial Day Weekend begins. Only a few also realize it is Pentecost weekend. The church was born tomorrow.

There is no fog tonight, the stars are bright and clear, little breeze can be felt.

I spent an hour playing saxophone in the light of the half moon. It was very good for my soul.

Within the darkness there is no light, but that does not mean light isn’t coming. Through the darkness I found a bit of new inspiration, even as I stumbled through the day, rising and falling, I pressed forward.

Only time and God can tell if I am on the right path.

Now, I go to sleep, but not before enjoying a very late dinner.

It came earlier today. Over the past few weeks it has waited until the sun was long through its downward arc. Today, around two, the mists came pouring through the valley, over the hills, shrouding the land, hiding the sun

A coyote, large and smiling, wandering up the driveway. A large pile of branches, including some large sections of trunk from an earlier cutting last year, caught its eye and nose. It poked around as I watched, going to different sides. I suspect this may be a chipmunk home, or at least a hiding place. So, I walked out, made myself known. It left, trotted away, then turned about fifty yards away to take a good look at me. I took a good look at it.

Coyotes are afraid, they are intelligent, realizing there is no worth in danger. I prefer, myself, not to see a chipmunk or squirrel become a small dinner. They’ve become my friends of sorts these last few weeks.

The day continued and so did I. A success? In part. I advanced at least in some regard. Though I wonder if how I went about moving today means I’ll have to go back and do it over again anyhow. I’m not the sharpest in this present mood.

I stumble and fall, scraping my knees, gashing my legs in the thorns of the brush which surrounds the trail. But I continue on, acknowledging my weakness and seeking to become stronger. I think I have. There is much being weeded out of me, those subtle emotions which run deep, those entrenched attitudes which hijack becoming attuned with God. A person expects a short journey, and it never is. No hurry, I’ve all of eternity to continue onwards.

A gentle breeze, barely a whisper of wind, stirs my windsock, making a slight rustle. Various flying bugs wander about, attracted to the light I turn on. I sit for a while outside, my feet on the rail, letting the peace of the evening enter into my soul.

I’ve gotten out of the habit of just sitting, stirred to press onwards to discover the meaning of this moment, forgetting my own purposes. Watching is enough for now, immersed as I am within the view. There is more to be sure, and yet, I feel not the slightest bit of rest, not the barest contentment. I press onwards and stopping has no rehabilitory effect.

I wonder if it should, if I am merely losing touch with that deeper side, or if indeed I am in touch and God does not have me content in the meditation. He is pressing me somewhere, to be sure. I must consider further what this means. Am I letting acedia disturb me, and theologizing it as direction. I honestly don’t know.

Scripture came to mind today, and yesterday for that matter. Not a specific verse, just the whole topic. Passing through the channels last night I stumbled by Jack van Impe. He’s a ‘prophecy’ guy who looks at current events and has a bucket of scriptures he relates to the goings-on. In talking he quotes and references, throwing out addresses as apparent authority. I’m not convinced by his predictions, nor really by his use of Scripture. Proof texting is what it seems to be, that is using verses out of context which vaguely relate.

Then I remember Paul does the same thing, so does Jesus, according at least to modern exegetical standards.

I’ve never been a memory verse kind of guy. I know Scripture, however. Mainly because I came at it from a different direction. I love to read, always have, and when I was young my parent bought me a Bible, an illustrated Bible. Not the kind with the NIV interspersed with EuroJesus. Mine was essentially the Bible in comic book form. I’m sure there were, and are, those who would vehemently fight against such sacrilege. I began beating adults at Bible trivia games when I was still young.

The pictures are still in my head. Just the other day when I was reading about Solomon and his riches the picture of the crates of goods, including peacocks, sitting on the beach brought a smile to my face.

I didn’t know the verses specifically, but I learned the story, the narrative, the overall flow and the characters of Scripture, old and new testaments in a way which propelled me into more professional studies with almost too much ease.

This came to mind because I realize in comparison with other writers on spiritual topics I don’t lace my comments with a lot of verses. It’s not because I lack the appreciation, it is because Scripture for me is such an assumed part of everything I do and write.

The earliest writers didn’t note their quotations, forcing editors of the past couple of centuries to add footnotes. Patrick, my namesake, is said to have a rather poor written latin, except for those times in which he uses Biblical phrases within his own thoughts. They knew Scripture, much more than we do really, and it infused everything they wrote.

That is my goal, to get there someday. I don’t want to be someone like Jack van Impe who throws out verses, watering down the authority by misuse. I want to be someone in whom, through whom, Scripture flows as part of my own thoughts, where I write about the Spiritual life without specific quotes. I want to know Scripture, and swim within its depths, to get to the point where I may not write exactly what Paul said, but write something Paul would agree with. Though I do want to write what Paul said, I suppose, only not with the assumed authority of adding addresses. Who really is convinced by addresses? “Oh, a verse in the second letter to the thessalonians says it,” the pagan will never say, “so then it must be true.”

We’ve become a people who know some verses, but don’t know the story, can’t reflect on the rhythm and flow, melody and harmony, which Scripture presents. This goes beyond the conservative harmonizing, making seemingly opposing verses fit together. It is an understanding of the God who was, is, and is to come. How we can read Ecclesiastes and Revelation with the same mind, how Romans is intimately connected with Judges.

Because there is a connection, a wonderful glorious revelation of a very complicated and unexpected God.

Maybe this is merely a sign I am not of the previous generation. Because the Bible tells me so? No, for me it is because of what the Bible is saying, what it is telling me. The story gives it authority, not vice versa.

The task is to get to know it as a whole, not bits and pieces with dubious purposes. I explain myself and exhort myself all at once.

I also realize I’m tired now. Off to bed.

It is cold again tonight, a chill in the air even without the wind. Clouds came this afternoon, filling the sky by dark, though not a fog, higher up. Something patters across the roof, I’ve no idea what, maybe a flying squirrel not quite flying.

I felt lethargic all day, pressing on despite the feelings, even exercising for a couple of hours. It is the ebb, I believe.

There is a rhythm to the spiritual life, which I don’t remember reading about (to be honest, I tend to read a lot and absorb it, forgetting inspiration, as it is ingested within, forgetting it came from somewhere). It ebbs and flows, light the day, like the tide, like so many other things. I wonder if there is, for me at least, a sense of grace being there when needed. I’m in a time between tasks, for the most part, so I am not charged with the same spiritual focus.

Or it could be creeping acedia, silenced beneath the weight of occupation, only stifled not silenced.

I don’t know, either way there is only to keep on with that which I know to do, those things which present themselves in the present. I pray for direction, for freedom, for understanding, and having prayed I must then do what can be done. Fretting is not worthwhile.

I end the day having made forward leaps, and yet feeling an emptiness, an emptiness that comes from perception of teases, carrots before my eyes which always retreat before me, never within grasp.

Not that this is an evil thing, I suppose. Joseph had his cup-bearer to be sure.

At the end of the day there is only obedience in doing what is right, and making progress in what I can. Having committed myself to the void, there isn’t any purpose in flailing about. Even if my heart is not in it, and feels an emptiness of being.

This all will make coming to the other side that much more beautiful.