For which I forgot to add a title until now.

Jeremiah 20:9

But if I say, I will not mention Him

Or speak any more in His name,

Then it is in my heart like a burning fire,

Shut up in my bones,

And I am weary of holding it in,

Nor can I.

This verse reverberated through me the way the mythical champagne glass sings along until it shatters. Jeremiah hit my resonant frequency, I guess. I am weary of holding it in, the word of God. Nor can I. I am weary of not — . I cannot but — .

On the one hand, the echoing harmonics in my soul tell me that I viscerally agree.

On the other hand, I am holding it in, though weary. It seems necessary as a self-preservation technique. Otherwise, as an introvert, exposure to as many people as your average subway ride would melt my stamina like so much I-Can’t-Believe-It’s-Not-Butter.

So I’m not as desperate as Jeremiah, not as open. I take more of a responsive approach to the gospel. If in the course of natural events, the Gibbs free energy is favorable and I am pushed over the activation energy hump, I call on the Lord inwardly and plunge. The words, hopefully spirit and life, burst their levees and the fire in my bones becomes brief embers in the air. Did they ignite? I dare not look. My eyes can’t tell, anyway.

But Lord, sometimes I wonder if that’s the definition of waiting for the proper season. In order to be an out of season worker, a foul-weather friend, I have to constantly obey the drive of my osteomyelitis, don’t I?

Wise words I heard once. At the time, I set my alarm half an hour early every morning and decided at that moment whether to get up for a frigid mile jog. A friend said, “if you have to make the decision the morning of, you’ve lost already.”

It’s late. I think my thoughts are loopier at the witching hour. Sorry. Tune back when I regain lucidity (which IMHO should just become lucence).