Plumb line

There is a plumb line. And it doesn’t swing right or left. Steady and straight, it hangs in the middle, making right angles to the earth, to us. It aligns with gravity, the gravity of what is coming. 


What’s to be done with a house that isn’t square? A house that is divided within itself, aligned to the acute and the obtuse.  Is it to be torn down, to begin again?  What’s to say we’d get it right this time? Perhaps it’s best to wait, to watch and pray, to know this world, this house, is not our home. 


You once said something about many rooms in your father’s house and that you’d be preparing a place for us, a place to dwell as family. You are the master builder. Unless you build the house, we labor in vain. You are unapologetically right and incomprehensibly kind, regardless of our ability to be still long enough to perceive the truth of your string and bob. You justify that which is crooked if we will but agree. 

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