The Secret Place

or the story of how all we do is stare

Today I feel out of sync with myself, out of touch with my soul - the part of me that makes me me. I feel like a kite stuck in a pine tree over a breathtaking landscape that I am so close to soaring over - if only I could pry myself free from these limbs.

I am so out of my element, in fact, that my insides don't so much as flutter at the idea of going to my beautiful secret place. I feel like some kind of shell that things like hermit crabs leave behind when they tire of pulling into themselves and seeing the same things.

I feel hollow. I feel futile.

I go anyway, even though the things inside me that usually feel alive feel like they took a nap and forgot to set an alarm.

Sometimes I go to the Spirit. Other times the Spirit comes to me. Today is definitely one of those second times.

I just want to feel normal again, not so indifferent. Today has been strange, like an itch that I know have but don't know where to scratch.

And it is a full moon and my insides are numb and my feet are merely strolling and I'm not saying that any of those things make what happens next any more sensible, any less absurd.

But as a turn the corner, he is there. Strumming his guitar. And words leave me.

Eyes meet but no words are exchanged. We are like mimes.

But when he sings he reminds me of angels, and words could not possibly suffice to explain what the sounds are saying. It's like he is putting coals to my heart, trying to melt me from somewhere only God can reach.

Sometimes all I can hear is his voice and mine. I don't know if that's what everyone else hears, but it sounds nice. Our voices sound like two streams that meet at the ocean, lost together, winding around each other like whirlpools of melody. It's nice.

He must think so, too, because he seems strangely infatuated with my general direction. Sometimes, mid-chorus, I can feel his ice cap irises on the side of my face. I sense his high cheekbones tilted towards me, hidden in the dimness. I know he watches me sing with him. I know he can hear our sound.

My face is settled in a beam of light that is streaming in through the window. I could move from here, but I don't because I am standing on a step, above everyone, and he can see me. He can see me singing and smiling and staring. I can't see him as clearly, but his silhouette is drawn in the light from the window he stands in, and if he turns his face slightly to the right, I can see his profile - singing and smiling and staring.

At one point, someone elbows the light switch and the chandelier bursts to life. It is quickly corrected. Just a second of light. But our eyes find each other before the lights go out - collide like the Titanic. Then we are enveloped in darkness again.

He speaks once: "God knew you before you were born. He knew your name. He created you, and He loves you. He never changes. He still loves you the same."

I lean against the corner of the entryway, body relaxed in the Spirit, my head lolled against the bricks. I sing loudly. I know he hears me. I know he sees me. And when I open my eyes to find his form, which seems like it should be somewhere else, which feels like a ghost, he is leaning against the corner of the window, body relaxed in the Spirit, his head lolled against the bricks. He sings loudly. I see him. I hear him.

I find the moment endearing and heartbreaking. The way we stand, the way we sing, what we do, who we are, our words, our movements, our thoughts, our breath all in sync at that one moment. I wonder if he knows.

He sings something, which haunts me even now. It bursts from his lips like smooth water: "Let it be us. Let it be us, Jesus."

Let it be us. Let it be us, Jesus.