in the midst of Chaos

In defense of hope:   CHAOS

 Genesis 1:1

1 In the beginning God created the heavens and the earth.[a]2 The earth was formless and empty, and darkness covered the deep waters. And the Spirit of God was hovering over the surface of the waters.

Chaos. Spirit. Sensitive. Quiet. Roar.

Complete disORder and confusion not the fUSion of law and order, #45 orders. 

There came the year 2020, of necessity, the clocks stopping on top, calendars grander, celebratory leaders creating and negating the underbelly while white supremacy firmly planted, granted people blessings and blessings to champion entropy. 

An articulate defense for hope at the beginning felt easy, full of cheesy, pleasing goals, practically parades in honor of him or her, a hope when we still COPEd without stamina, so we “Hoped in” which is not a strategy. It’s a strategy lacking strategy. It’s a hope without potency, chaotic catastrophe.

Formless, Darkness, Deadness. The despair where old evil ensnares us expressionless.

But for sure shallow light was bright, not dim. We all bought the truth slim, narrow and borrowed, on endless credit of the erased dead. 200,000 plus deceased. Hope eased into its throne, crowned its home, And I too, saw you and blew out candles with wishes for kisses to cover what I, too, knew were the lies I despise.

Time flies. And the formless, empty places of my heart, are a greater part, partially because I cannot find my heart. A heart where spaces feel empty – like before they were transformed.

2020’s birth is its first offense. A chaos chasing us. A Chaos mocking us. It’s chaos inside us.

 There is a sense of defense. A disordered truce with compliance. We’ll do what we do as we are so competent. This season of chaos smells of our discontent. 

 A virus, too divisive. Too sensitive, formless matter apparent.

Why’s chaos so content? Hope translucent. Hoping is founded in faith. Rested in love. It’s hope after hope after hope, where I best love. I want to love you, love my family, love those I see and those I don’t see. 

 However, young brother and young sister, with only relative competence, I fail incompetent. Shadows overwhelm me, light hides from me.

Trials and torment, covid in Italy, the tally daily shaded the morning winters, splinters flying into a fragile, not agile, society, founded in pretend piety.

In the early, day not over, sun sparring with the evil deities, I rise. 

My eyes not blinded but pierced by each ray of light. Hope vies, inside my walls, outside my walls.

I keep my family inside. The world outside. The hurt inside out of us.

Does chaos betray us? If so, when will hope return to us? Will it come to rescue us? 

The sun, typical Northwest beauty. But, outside world, hostile, lynching our brothers and sisters. Exploiting brown backs, Essential immigrants.

Santana. Tu-Pac. American Prophets. 

Formless matter, the chatter sensitive to small change, bedlam reigns, mayhem sparks appear before I can dream again, hope again. Squelched and choked on darkness.

Laser focused wounds – contributing to my internal drift – the islands of trauma quaking apart, the myriads of ways I prepare to depart. My mask, glasses, bra, underwear – returning to my body, breath by breath – one oxygen molecule at a time.  It is chaos, at best. 

Hope’s alive? Hope lives?  Will there be light? Light to darkness?

I find you, Hope, inside the pieces, scattered within those pieces.  

Born Incongruent

Faith Incongruent

Trauma Incongruent

There is a settled-unsettled-not sure feeling in the air. Cooking, cleaning, tidying-up. It’s past 8 a.m. and I didn’t frantically call the survival hotline. There isn’t one there. 

A week ago, my chest compressed into short breaths. I asked myself, “how will we survive?” That questions feels far away. What does it matter? Am I still formless matter?

God, form me, shape me, instill hope in me. I need thee. I need thee.

Last week, a dear friend adds, to my angst, challenge private, personal not so personal justified, magnified anger and rage. Suicide by Covid. Genocide while we live. The smell of death inside.

Rage, anger, powerless, dear God – religion – or faith –  the entire system. In our private conversations, I am increasingly aware. Of rage. It boils over. Tips into chaos. In the midst of most intimate relationships, friends. I return to my God again and again.

Chaos.

But, here God says, “Let there be light,” And I know there is light. It’s bright. In the fight unknown, amongst known hope, bright. It shines. Highlights. It sings. It brings me changing. Imagination. It enters deprivation of my senses, of tangible, graspable, palatable transformation.

I am not forced into hope, I’m discipled, loved, in the formless matter less chaos.

I know hope in the darkness. It’s birthed in the chaos.

There’s hope in the chaos.