A lady found my check on the metro.
She tracked me down and is returning it to me at the shops at Promenade.
Restored faith in mankind.
via good people
Friday, February 15, 2013
Sunday, February 10, 2013
A Place of Free WiFi: Washington, DC
There are wait, let me count them:
15 tables.
I man sits at my table.
No big deal.
Nope.
No big deal.
But then he starts to cough and play music really loudly and it's no thing that there are 14 other tables but at the moment of that overexposed cough it did get akward and I was like:
I was like:
I was like: [wait for it]
I was like:
what the what?
via straight akward moments, via my other other blog
15 tables.
I man sits at my table.
No big deal.
Nope.
No big deal.
But then he starts to cough and play music really loudly and it's no thing that there are 14 other tables but at the moment of that overexposed cough it did get akward and I was like:
I was like:
I was like: [wait for it]
I was like:
what the what?
via straight akward moments, via my other other blog
Church
I wear hats- wide, big brimmed, deep coutry, give me that "low" religion church hats. Let me explain.
Some people think, "that's too catholic," carrying a spirit of rebellion that they fully don't understand. A priest smears wet ashes on the forehead of whosoever sha'll come: mostly catholics and the good epsicipalians. And me, a footwashing baptist.
I look down at my hands and imagine a few hundred years ago, how may lashings would have been counted across my back. In this dream, I can't figure how I would have learned to read and write, but for the timelessness of my creativity, I can't help but figure: I would have learned to read and write.
Now, I imagine, somehow acquiring some scripture and then, reading that scripture. Gathering with some family and friends, who, from hear and speak traditions, had passed on the good news that we all know or want to know, "oh He died! Didn't He die!" And, me, after reading that scripture would be in the balcony of a church defiantly descended down from the Church of England on Ash Wednesday ready to take that oath and smear across my face too, the second half of every Baptist sermon, "Oh, but He rose! Didn't He rise!"
And then I figure it would go like this:
Seeing this all take place, I would need to take part in this. The burned palms for the sake of my sin sick soul, smeared across my forehead as the remission of those afforementioned nails. Yes, I would walk down from the balcony, slowly, slinking down through the mass of Black faces, into a new crowd and down around the mass until I bowed before the priest.
But you see, I would look up at the priest and down at my hands, and realize the exclusion by which I had been made clean: Blacks weren't human.
So, you ask. Why do I dawn the ash? Listen in Israel as the alarm to face Mecca sounds five times a day and watch as people fall into prayer and Jews, wail at the weeping wall with shrouds. Any annonymous Christian passes through. We have that choice and for the former or latter: the ash or a forehead as clean as the next, we have been forgiven.
I dawn the ash, because some man who had made his way up from the islands and into a situation of slavery could not read. And despite all the elsewhere things, like reading and writing, confessed his sins and carried on because of the cross, that beautiful sign of joy and life everlasting.
I dawn the ash because the same people who carried those palms to Calvary nailed that Perfect Man onto the cross, that emblem of suffering and shame.
I dawn the ash because despite my imperfection, my sin and limited understanding, I hope at least one personwill ask me: "what is that on your face," so that I may share a story of love for all people. A symbol of execution and redemption. Whether Black, White, or other, I might invite him to walk down with me, through the crowd, and straight to the priest to smear a trace of oily palms: that mean something so simple and something so eternal:
For God so loved the world.
via a history of a movement, via the blood of Jesus Chirst
Some people think, "that's too catholic," carrying a spirit of rebellion that they fully don't understand. A priest smears wet ashes on the forehead of whosoever sha'll come: mostly catholics and the good epsicipalians. And me, a footwashing baptist.
I look down at my hands and imagine a few hundred years ago, how may lashings would have been counted across my back. In this dream, I can't figure how I would have learned to read and write, but for the timelessness of my creativity, I can't help but figure: I would have learned to read and write.
Now, I imagine, somehow acquiring some scripture and then, reading that scripture. Gathering with some family and friends, who, from hear and speak traditions, had passed on the good news that we all know or want to know, "oh He died! Didn't He die!" And, me, after reading that scripture would be in the balcony of a church defiantly descended down from the Church of England on Ash Wednesday ready to take that oath and smear across my face too, the second half of every Baptist sermon, "Oh, but He rose! Didn't He rise!"
And then I figure it would go like this:
Seeing this all take place, I would need to take part in this. The burned palms for the sake of my sin sick soul, smeared across my forehead as the remission of those afforementioned nails. Yes, I would walk down from the balcony, slowly, slinking down through the mass of Black faces, into a new crowd and down around the mass until I bowed before the priest.
But you see, I would look up at the priest and down at my hands, and realize the exclusion by which I had been made clean: Blacks weren't human.
So, you ask. Why do I dawn the ash? Listen in Israel as the alarm to face Mecca sounds five times a day and watch as people fall into prayer and Jews, wail at the weeping wall with shrouds. Any annonymous Christian passes through. We have that choice and for the former or latter: the ash or a forehead as clean as the next, we have been forgiven.
I dawn the ash, because some man who had made his way up from the islands and into a situation of slavery could not read. And despite all the elsewhere things, like reading and writing, confessed his sins and carried on because of the cross, that beautiful sign of joy and life everlasting.
I dawn the ash because the same people who carried those palms to Calvary nailed that Perfect Man onto the cross, that emblem of suffering and shame.
I dawn the ash because despite my imperfection, my sin and limited understanding, I hope at least one personwill ask me: "what is that on your face," so that I may share a story of love for all people. A symbol of execution and redemption. Whether Black, White, or other, I might invite him to walk down with me, through the crowd, and straight to the priest to smear a trace of oily palms: that mean something so simple and something so eternal:
For God so loved the world.
via a history of a movement, via the blood of Jesus Chirst
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