Memory

It's September, the last desperation clouding my soul is fading. I am driving now. The freedom is good. I'm happy. I've realized my basic needs were always easy to meet but I underestimated isolation.

I miss you. 

It's almost unnatural the way connections fire off and I find myself once again thinking of us. Every moment from the shading of a smile to the frequency of a pitch ignite and draw my heart back to you. Strange, hidden amidst the most mundane sounds, smells, sights, are triggers so powerful they send me reeling back into time. The thoughts and memories flash like lighting, striking mostly at random and yet too calculated to be an accident. The thunder peels as my emotions flare and I am back so long ago in those same places, those same moments. Memory is as much a blessing as a curse for the forsaken. A haunting specter refusing to let go. I don't want it too. As much as my soul wells up and cries for the cloying hands of the past to relinquish their iron grip, it is that connection with yesterday that drives me on towards tomorrow.

It's almost inescapable. Perhaps this is it, the mending of souls, never meant to be pulled apart. Perhaps the very spirit is now unbreakable, forever wound in this moment. 

I never thought much of memory. I never thought much of the device. It's not the photographic memory that leaves one haunted. Bright and vibrant, real and near. Rather It's the faded faulty camera in our minds. The long expired days turn gray and blur into evanescence. The old thoughts pale and rust and emotions run fallow. Honed and sharp I find the connections in my mind almost overwhelm me. Every thought linked to everything. I thought the mere pictures on a wall or the rereading of old letters would make my heart long and thirst for the old days. I thought removing such things could bring peace to a wounded soul. What foolishness, for if removing a photo could clean and wash the stains of time, peace would not be forfeit in the midnight hours. Yet, if removing a mere photo from the wall could make me forget, I shudder to think of the temporary investment my heart was making. No amount of self-abrasion could scrub away the connections and feelings. I once thought strong items fettered our mind such as music and old haunts. Yet it is the most insignificant of things, the most common, the most every day that launches my heart into the same tirade. The same longing. There is no solace, no peace, no rest. It's obvious the soul was not meant to feel such things. To feel such brokenness.  As hours waste and my prayers of desperation turn fervent I am reminded simply 

 of Jesus. 

In His humanity He came and found Himself separated from the Father. I know not the theological ramifications, I make no such claim to be wise in the ways of the scholar, but I am caught off-guard. The desperation in my soul is a mark of my humanity. Christ, the most human person to ever live, must have felt the longing. The longing to see His father. The longing for His lost and broken sheep. It is here I raise my cup to God, tip my hat and breath. I am feeling the heart of Christ. I am feeling the longing that Calvary brought to Him when He emptied Himself of power. Scarcely can my heart fathom the strange disconnection He must have felt in His own creation. Every atom, molecule, blade of grass, grin, old lady, laughing child and outflow of His once glorious self and father. Every moment a reminder that He is separated. I can hear a voice or see a couple holding hands and be thrust miles back into time, yet Jesus must have felt the sting of eternity welled up in a mortal coil. Every moment a wonderful symbol of daddy, yet an overwhelming isolation few of us can even begin to underestimate. Beautiful. That God would give up more than His life for us. The gospel is not the last week of the life of Jesus. It is this miraculous account of a creator so loving, intimate, and beyond that He humbled Himself to be like a child. To be birthed by His own creation. To sweat, get tired, bleed, cry, get hungry. It is this humanity that was written of in Hebrews. Christ is not an ethereal disembodied soul, rather He can identify with us. He has been there. It is now as I am here in eye of the hurricane, wondering what the future holds that I see all the more Christ is beautiful. He really loves us. If we really can haunt someone as glorious as God, surely not a moment goes by that we are not on His mind, ever present, called out to by a love few of us may ever even encounter.