The ability to lyrically draw forth the deep groans and gratitudes of the soul is somewhat miraculous. It’s genius. It’s a gift that’s been given to mankind through mankind for centuries. It’s likely that humanity would find itself in far worse condition if it weren’t for the gifted men and women who seem so beautifully synced, so profoundly connected to the crux of life and soul. They’re bestowed with the transcendent ability to translate into language the very things that are beyond language. They’re soul-language interpreters. Continue Reading…
Archives For pain
There are days when I long for ignorance. The problem is, you can’t go back to the land of ignorance. You can only remain there. Once you leave your homeland, any attempt to return is willful ignorance, and you actually end up in the land of denial. Both lands can seem blissful, but denial requires more stupidity.
Art, if it can be ascribed value, is most valuable when its beauty (and the beauty of the truth it tells) bewilders, confounds, defies evil itself; it does so by making what has been unmade; it subverts the spirit of the age; it mends the heart by whispering mysteries the mind alone can’t fathom; it fulfills its highest calling when into all the clamor of Hell it tells the unbearable, beautiful, truth that Christ has died, Christ is risen, and Christ will come again. None of these songs and stories matter if the beauty they’re adding to isn’t the kind of beauty that redeems and reclaims.
That doesn’t mean every song and every story has to be a sermon. Not at all! But the very existence of great stories and stirring music and good art is a sermon itself. That anyone at all in the world would set their sad heart and tired hands to the work of wreaking beauty out of chaos is a monument to Grace. It reminds us of light and high beauty, and it laments the world’s great sorrow. It gives the heart language to rejoice and language to mourn.
~ Andrew Peterson at The Rabbit Room: Little Things Matter
Pot. Speed. X. Coke. Acid. Shrooms. Liquor. Sex.
It was more than a hobby. More than a recreational pursuit of a good time. It was LIFE. Those painkillers/life-enhancers were what I lived for. What else was there? I was the consummate day-trader. Exchanging canyon-low for sky-high. Palpable darkness for synthetic light. Irrepressible pain for fleeting pleasure.
Do not think that my spiritual life is strewn with roses – that is the flower which I hardly ever find on my way. Quite the contrary, I have more often as my companion “darkness.” And when the night becomes very thick – and it seems to me as if I will end up in hell – then I simply offer myself to Jesus. If He wants me to go there – I am ready – but only under the condition that it really makes Him happy. ~ Mother Teresa
Mom and I lived in an old bungalow on York Street, just a few blocks from Washington Park. It was a single-story house with a large front porch, much like the one in the picture. The window above the porch provided the rising sun passage into an otherwise dark, creepy attic.
The house was eerie, like something out of a horror flick. Looking up from the street you could sometimes see a shadowy figure peering out from the attic window.
We were not alone.