I could do her job, if they would ask me, if they would let me, which no one has or will, but I would be damn good and I could still do my own job too. I could make life better for him if he would just let me rearrange his world — only a tweak here or there, just a little editing of commas and content — and he would surely be happier, he just doesn’t know it yet. Never mind that my own life is dusty and overdue, I would gladly surrender to chaos in my own world if the rest of the world would let me organize it. I could be the poet and the sage, the pastor and the parent all at once — if only they would ask me, if only they would let me, because I have no doubt that I could. Surely this is not hubris, Most Holy God, because it comes not with a vain confidence but with a righteous frustration that the world is not yet the kindom you have called it to be. This is prophetic energy, O Restless Spirit, not prideful busywork. Turn me loose from these constraints of community, these limitations of flesh, let me take up my godliness and get things done already.

. . .

. . .

. . .

[the sound of holy ROFLing]

. . .

. . .

. . .

Right. Fine. Monday morning it is, then, and I don my flesh with prayers that you will don your holiness. May we each play our parts to the blessing of the other.

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