I’m a sucker.
I’m a sucker for skin, yours, probably white or black or in between, how Jesus loves his little children. This is seen: the hunger, the bread and butter; how we fit in our jeans, the stitch, where the pockets land. The unseen, how tattoo ideas can drop into prayer like a hawk.
I’m a sucker for strings. On bad days, how my mind churns up past, but then the music, and I see the body, the skin on the raised hands, and it makes the unseen in me dance, slip my shoes off, feel the cold tiles. God is celebrated by suckers.
The creator puts Himself in us, makes us beat box. Even children do it. They hear the praise and know the demons flea. They move their hips like its sacred. Beat the table top, got the boom of fire, that holy.
We’ve got life. We’ve got Africa (Ireland?) in our hearts, Mongolian spots. We’ve generations behind us. Zion up ahead.
Pray, I mean dance, with us, church; so much hurts.
Or just free write. It can be worship.