Waking Up

Waking Up

I imagine it’s like waking up.

You’re lying down. The eyes open, but the first sensation is what’s felt, not seen. As you’re lying flat, every stair-step of the spine is aligned, each branching nerve pulsates with memory and satisfaction. Sinew and muscle fibers lovingly wrap the bones into an eager range of motion. Your entire frame is whole, as if the constant arguments between joint, muscle, and nerve have finally resolved into harmony. For the first time in your existence, you have a body that is perfection.

You form a fist, and your arm respectfully contracts. You extend the fingers, then press on imaginary piano keys, and notice your forearm’s tendons dance in obedience. Your fingers touch your face. It is clear and smooth. You trace the surface—-nose, eyes, ears, more symmetrical. They are familiar, but different. You’re suddenly aware of your skin. It is somehow soft and firm; not as permeable as before. As a whole, your skin has no crevices or caverns, no erosion, more like a supple radiance.

Your hair is dense; the color is rich and fertile, not as lifeless as before. Your eyes are piercing, at once incomprehensible and captivating. The whites of the eyes are clear and glowing, worthy halos around the brilliant color. The lashes are active and the lids blink in disbelief.

You feel the flow of air pull in oxygen, shooting through open sinuses to inflate the swelling lungs and circulate to every cell. You feel your heart, the surest and strongest drum you’ve ever heard, a foreshadow of what’s to come.

You curve your neck and are surprised by the summoned power of your torso. It is lean and resolute. You prop on one arm, knees bent. You feel an engaged strength in all your muscle fibers, meekly responsive and yet formidable. You push forward and balance with lubricated joints eager to spring limbs upward. You rise, with feet curved and rooted to the ground. Fully upright, you sense a height not yet experienced, measured more by majesty than metrics.

In your magnificence, you suddenly burst with memories. The mind is unhindered and vibrant. There is no interruption in mental commentary, only an even, rational flow. Your persona is intact. You know what is coming. Your new body, now whole and complete, mobilizes with surety. You are clothed; you are ready. The arbitration has begun. You have the trepidation but above all, you await a familiar Face.

 

Human Connection

Human Connection

There is no substitute for human connection.

I could pray, I could read, I could prophesy. But no measure of solitary piety can piece back another’s fragmented mind unless they join hands.

I have walked uphill for so long and martyred myself against reaching hands. My independence became my isolation. Then I would ask God why I was abandoned. He answered me with human connection.

No one can be fixed but they can be loved, and then they are mended by the only true Healer.

Religion is fought in the mind but won with external embrace, and that is what humans were built to do.

The arms bend—every crook and corner folds symmetrically across the complementary human form. Palms press. Fingers imprint, their nerve endings calculating every sensation.

Lungs quiver in hesitation, then rest in synchronized waves. Hearts beat in bursting speech, coming home to the other vessel. Both lungs and hearts swell together. This is active. This is life.

This is best handled with tightness, after long absences, every muscle strained and yet relaxed in the peace of the other. The neck curves the head that it may repose on the other’s ready shoulder.

There is no selfishness in this, only the purest longing for home to be satisfied in the most heavenly terms.

Inherent in their composition: bone, muscle, fiber, and vessel are anxious to connect, to come home. This was their true purpose. Together they comprise the most magnificent creation established: the house of a Child of God. And there is nothing more godly than loving.

The two humans form the shape of an answer. If God stood here right now, he would embrace you. Until then, love his children.

 

 

 

Photo Credit: Mark Mabry, https://reflectionsofchrist.myshopify.com/