The thoughts are too big to be melted down and crammed into words, but words are our splintering paintbrushes, our 88 keys, the shallow, lisping voice given to our wars and comforts. I'm glad You know more about me than what I can say in words. I'm glad that my heart is naked and spread out before You.
Do You laugh when I catch a glimpse of glory, and under the weight of it I try to find relief in my stuttering and stammering and tripping over these confounded words? Yes, I'm sure You laugh. Why do I try so hard to force Your glory into these shabby constructs? I suppose it makes me feel like I understand it better. I just don't realize that I'm actually making a cheap copy of it, like turning away from a masterful painting and trying to recreate it with crayons in the little white spaces on my cereal box.
Teach me to sit here under the weight of glory and just be ok with that. Teach me to stop turning it over and over in my mind and my mouth. I want it to be You--unadulterated, the real thing and not the copy.
One day the tower of Babel will be rebuilt. One day there will be words--good, massive, strong words. The language of Holy, Holy, Holy.
For now, I'm peering through a glass dimly, and it feels irresponsible that I don't have anything to say. But if I can just sit here and let the thoughts be too big for words, it will be a victory for this silly creature.
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