Stream of Consciousness -or- It's Been An Eventful Night

Lord, why am I on your list? Who etched my name into the book of life? Surely that was not my hand. I never touched that quill. My hand would have faltered, my fingers burnt. But, this script so solid and secure, is this the handwriting of God?

Oh that I would be your mad prophet, walking through the streets, pouring scalding rains of truth into the hearts of all within earshot. Men would hate me, but I would not care. I would be pure passion, holy strength, completely consumed by sacred tongues of fire.

Oh that I would be your lone hermit, secluded from the world of sin and hate, completely alone to ponder your glory. I would be a paradigm of peace and serenity. My every waking moment would be an outcry of love. My every breath, a preparation of eternity.

But instead I am this... thing. Not a prophet, not a hermit, not a missionary, not a priest, not a preacher, not an apostle, not a saint, not a martyr. What is this strange costume? What mask should I wear? Do you really expect me to go on stage naked? That doesn't seem appropriate.

You know, I think she could've saved my soul. If only situations had been different. But, that's probably an exaggeration. I guess I'll never know.

Whatever this is that you have for me, it's hard, difficult in so many ways. But, I have to believe it's worth it (said Jonah from the fish's gut). Who knows, maybe at the end of this whole thing I'll get a view of the fireworks from a hilltop in the shade.

It's over, it's over (my son, it's just begun). Why does everything always have to be in circles?