Heads bowed atop folded, sweat-sticky arms resting on wooden desks,Mrs. Logan led us past the daily eraser lint and chalk dust, deep into the imagination of seventh grade boys.
"Meditation," she said, word unfolding like velvet blanket from mother's alto, "is a gift from God. Picture an orb, incandescent bulb over formless void, bottomless chasm, or ashen open ocean. The orb is Christ."
Time swung in rhythm--eyes on the watch, we each grew sleepy-- and in mind's eye the orb drifted over bawdy Spanish beaches, over the bare myths told in boyhood locker rooms.
"This is the Word not yet flesh, not yet nailed to tree but hanging in sky. It is greater than sun and moon; it is creating the first Eden. Imagine?" The first Eden, where all was naked and unashamed,
where mediation was unsullied by adolescent dreams of sex, or hunger, I imagined. "Jesus, the always hanging orb, or ever present Savior comes to create peace. See him approaching; feel him pushing past breastbone; know his peace."
Voice calling into deeper dreams of decadence, of Eden's perfect breastbones, of sticky pomegranate smiles, powerful stallions, and multi-orbed skies, I followed into innocence, into the wide-eyed wonder of time lost to sleep.
"Lunch," the orb whispered, and pulled arms up from luscious earth, through clouds, and into the groggy then of a Cheshire smile, the chorus of girlish giggles. There, the mystic orb dissolved into the face of Mrs. Logan,
and left me to contend with that which was also real.
In the most recent Tiny Letter (my once-a-month, insider newsletter delivered straight to your email), I'm discussing the Lenten season, the darkness of my heart, and the discipline of quiet reflection. If you sign up today, you'll receive a FREE DOWNLOAD of the song "Train Wreck." It's a song I wrote about pain, loss, and the love of God.