I have just finished listening to the latest episode of The Sacred Ordinary Days Podcast, the episode on Pentecost + Ordinary Time. Lacy & Jenn end the discussion on language, as inspired by the speaking in tongues that happened on the day of Pentecost, except Lacy made the point that languages are not just sets of words used around the globe. Language finds itself in our passions and our joys, and language finds itself in those misfortunes, those thorns in our sides, in all of the places beyond words.
These days, my native tongue has been Depression. I am fluent in it. Filtered through the gray of it, the world feels dull, unbearably boring, incredibly cumbersome. All year long I have endured the seasons of celebration, unable to catch the spirit of them, waiting for it to be over and go back into Ordinary Time where at least my mood matches the season. These sacred, ordinary days. These days, I feel more alive in Ordinary Time. These days, I feel the fullness of ordinary, of mundane, of humility. I feel Christ here, closer than a whisper, trudging alongside me through the muck of life, the plainness of it all, the drudgery. I wish I could be happy, and I can say objectively that my life isn't that bad, but I can also objectively say that life is terrible and beautiful. And I have found myself someplace between terror and awe and peace, and the celebration is too much stimulation. It's all I can do to cling to Ordinary, to feeding myself and to going to my job and to doing my homework and maybe taking a shower every once in a while, maybe hissing a prayer like a curse between these things and hoping the Holy Spirit will translate it into something sacred.
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This is a language with many speakers, and I have hope that God will put my dialect to good use among them.
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It is finals week. Wrapping up the semester I never felt ready for is a relief. And I have Utah, that promised land, waiting for me on the other side of it.
And I will speak with you again on the other side of that.
These days, my native tongue has been Depression. I am fluent in it. Filtered through the gray of it, the world feels dull, unbearably boring, incredibly cumbersome. All year long I have endured the seasons of celebration, unable to catch the spirit of them, waiting for it to be over and go back into Ordinary Time where at least my mood matches the season. These sacred, ordinary days. These days, I feel more alive in Ordinary Time. These days, I feel the fullness of ordinary, of mundane, of humility. I feel Christ here, closer than a whisper, trudging alongside me through the muck of life, the plainness of it all, the drudgery. I wish I could be happy, and I can say objectively that my life isn't that bad, but I can also objectively say that life is terrible and beautiful. And I have found myself someplace between terror and awe and peace, and the celebration is too much stimulation. It's all I can do to cling to Ordinary, to feeding myself and to going to my job and to doing my homework and maybe taking a shower every once in a while, maybe hissing a prayer like a curse between these things and hoping the Holy Spirit will translate it into something sacred.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
This is a language with many speakers, and I have hope that God will put my dialect to good use among them.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
It is finals week. Wrapping up the semester I never felt ready for is a relief. And I have Utah, that promised land, waiting for me on the other side of it.
And I will speak with you again on the other side of that.
♥ Ciara
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