|Forum - Wall Street Pit
||Stock Due Diligence for All|
|From: trendtn (Rep: 158) reply to alectric||Date: 11/16/2019 09:14|
|Forum: Wall Street Pit - Msg #2805213||Thread #674108148 (Rec: 0) |
|Re: Higher Power...congratulations, one of my favorite pieces of yours. Anot...|
Thank you. Sanctification is what I meant I suppose....a cleansing of the spirit and the heart
| Reply to alectric - Msg #2805212 - 11/15/2019 23:02|
Re: Higher Power...congratulations, one of my favorite pieces of yours. Another was the description of the woman coming to do your laundry when you were building cottages in Florida, which brilliantly expresses what is known in Theology as sanctification:
"That summer it rained nearly every night and like those other stains, in the dark, with lightning all around and the wind blowing through a busted window, she would try to wash the day from me.
She poured herself like only a woman can until she herself became a kind of bleach. Some tender part of her worked at the coarse in me determined to wash away the dirt that collected between the lean of my heart and the stoop labor of trying to find some lost hope.
That cleansing each night became a kind of holy thing. No one talks about it and it has no name except love. But that’s not it. Not really. It’s something else. Some common wordless act between a man and a woman. It’s some forgotten sacrament that has no name.
It is full of the cleansing of baptism and the communion of two souls. And it’s the last rites of hopelessness and lonely. It surrounds your scars and scrubs at them until the true that was forced in reaches up and out. It saves us again and again, night after night from the ruined in our hands. And somehow, in the dark, it makes all the wrong turns to find the right place.
But it doesn’t happen once and forever. Redemption isn't a onetime thing. You have to roll away that stone each night. You have to resurrect yourself again and again before you can walk above the dirt you’re buried in each day.
So each day I would die a little and feel the dirt rise all around me, trying to bury me above the ground. And each night she would dig me out. Like the old woman, she learned to use the strongest part of her. She would pour it, like bleach, first on those clothes and then on the man.
And as each day revolved into night I could feel the world turning ...wash, spin and rinse…trying again and again to clean the groan from its own heart. I remember listening to the rain beat against that old tin roof, and further in the back hall, the washer churning away at the stains and the girl in my arms trying with every bit of her heart to bleach me out again before the coming day.
All of it spinning up around me each night. Saving me again and again, from the stains of myself."
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