June 10, 2008


I have a friend who was abroad for 5 years and returned to her country two years before me. We worked together for most of that and had a wonderful time. She has experienced the same problem finding a job and getting any recognition for work done anywhere other than home.

I told her it feels like we jumped out of the matrix, and we're trying to reinsert- square pegs rotating constantly over a field of round holes. I know there's a match out there somewhere. Like an action movie- where the good guy needs to sneak into a large building via the air vent, with huge rotating blades that will cut off any slow limbs. I feel like that's what we're attempting, and we're repeatedly getting wacked and spat out again.

Somehow I've never felt so fragile. One verse of a poem kept coming to me yesterday."Hope is the thing with feathers"..

Once years ago a friend said when he had no person to talk to he was forced to talk to the Lord. I always tried to maneuver that- "So and so won't answer- I just need to talk to the Lord!" but inevitably tenacity would win and I would get a hold of a flesh and blood person. But yesterday I found myself flung out of the great air shaft of life, outside a school (I'm an English teacher) and the place I wanted to turn was God. And as I did I dissolved. I felt that I, and not hope, am the tiny one with feathers, and that only He can hold me gently without breaking a wing. And I wept more at how grateful I am that I can never go further than His reach. I reached for my Bible and read some of my favorite- David.. I somehow identify with that shepherd made king. I read around Psalms 4-7 and was comforted when David said "The LORD has heard my weeping...The LORD has heard my cry for mercy; the LORD accepts my prayers..." And at once I'm filled with peace. This world was never meant to be fair, we will find limited justice and peace or hope in it alone- which Kaabong reminded me of daily. But I wept that through it all, He hears my weeping, the cries of a little tiny bird.. but one He knows. He offers more. He listens. And He is there.

Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune--without the words,
And never stops at all,
And sweetest in the gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.
I've heard it in the chillest land,
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity, It asked a crumb of me.
-Emily Dickinson

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