Memories in the postmodern

I remember a time when I knew nothing of God's love and mercy. Grace was foreign to me and I walked the earth as one who is dead without even knowing it. But somewhere in the deep places I always knew. I always felt a great sense of lack. Lack of something real, tangible, and c0mplete. I was incomplete. Separation creates a void, an incompleteness that remains as a residue of the soul. Like a child, I never quit shaking, always a bit sickly. In the quiet moments alone in the dark I felt the presence of nothing in particular, but I knew that it was my heart yearning for something new, for a life-long lament to cease, for tears to dry and the Son to shine. But these instances of soul-talk were so fleeting- hearing its first utterance, shifting my thoughts to the familiar. The comfortable. The illusory things of this world. A lie. And the lie always fooled me for a time, just long enough to drop a coin in the juke box of life so that my discontent might be pacified a bit longer.

The song, the dance, and the merriment would always ultimately shut down and at the end of the day I would be confronted with my weakness. We can only run so long, but we never quite out-pace the love of God. We are created by One outside ourselves. Every person yearns to know where they come from. We long to understand and believe in an origin, an explination for why we are and who we are. "In the beginning..." was what? Who?