At first I feared for M since it is my custom to say Good Morning Dawn knowing she can see it as well and more clearly, rising above the Organ Mountains we share.
This dawn was extraordinary. At the time of my viewing, it was . . . gold, peach, saffron, yellow gold . . . I thought about capturing it with any of several digital cameras laying about ready . . . but decided not to since my foreground was littered with Lamp Stanchions, power plus telephone lines and broken by the adjacent rooftops before me. Inherent was a sense of possession by mind, immutable, indelible and never to be forgotten.
The other woman remains alive at hospice and ‘my final patient’ there. It was my custom to spend available time, brief or long, learning from her. A Christian missionary, she gave me her Zondervan “The Amplified Bible” in three small books, traveled with her to and in China and Ecuador. In addition to her teaching me the meaning of Christianity from her experience, the books are precious; and her gift will endure forever. . . .Before dying I hope to pass them forward to someone worthy of them. Otherwise they, like all that I write and photograph, will go with me into the dumpster as trash.
There were several times in her presence that I, caught in a fit of passion, would begin to preach. I think she affirmed, and in her very special way, ‘ordained’ me in more ways than her missionary gift. In this recent telephone conversation I caught myself, yet again, preaching . . . pausing to say; “I love to preach!” I could hear her smile on the phone.
Regardless of hour or tenure of rest, I awaken leaping as through hurled from a siege engine; a trebuchet with violent velocity into my thoughts, prayers, omens, portents, images and dialogs dancing across the plain blank white on my word processor screen. There used to be an urgency to capture the remnants before they evaporate in ordinary concerns of the day or whatever time I resurrect from the death of sleep so deep nothing can otherwise awaken me. I am a bit more ordered now.
While in Chicago photographing events at St. Viator High School,I became acquainted with their prayer to ‘become an image of Christ.’ Then to integrate it into a long standing sense of: Either Jesus never left this mortal coil, or that instead of returning as indicated in Revelations, He was resurrect in some that I'd met; women and men. Perhaps not in whole; but part enought to be noticeable.
Seeking illustration for another post I stumbled across a Parabola Magazine Arc about Julian of Norwich, a woman brought to my attention by Sr. Kieran Flynn, RSM, and found myself astonished we shared the same birthday. Curious are the ways I am lead feeling so unworthy the attention paid. But that is what held me enthralled before always yet now I say thank you and keep-on-keepin on in the gifts showering me.
If I role play it is an attempt to better understand what it was like to be with Jesus in His time. I am not ready to share my dreams regarding him, or I should say two dreams and one vision. Nor am I comfortable talking about my Marian dreams yet I did with some Latina’s at water aerobics and they, surprised, lead me to preaching yet again up to our chins in water. Laughter at myself.
To me resurrection and reincarnation seem remarkably similar. There was one dream I had of God who was in fact my step grandfather: sweat stained fedora, suspenders and slouch all together, He laughing at and with me; he used to say; You're as crazy a June bug/bedbug and laugh uproariously. Odd. And sad. That I never knew my mother’s father and sometimes fall to speculating that I am a preacher’s kid once removed. The remembering Lao Tzu; “Born to be wild - live to outgrow it.” I will live with my helplessness until I once again meet God face-to-face as God wishes or wills . . . and then perhaps God will tell me my real name and purpose. Until that time my focus narrows and burns with greater intensity for those among us who “flip out” and kill indiscriminately. Oddly I identify with them.
I once said to my beloved grandmother Mamalu that he, Nicodemus Noll, my ‘step grandfather’ was not dead to me; I carried his funeral mass card in my Jerusalem Bible; lamentably left behind when I last ran away . . . or into the who and how I am now.
Reading from Julian I was lead to read Psalm 136 and there I shall return before submerging again in rest.
121007 17:19 “. . his love endures forever.”
©2012 by Jack Spratt - All Rights Reserved
