My muse– the first person to see each of my scenes– wrote this for me tonight, and of course it made me weep like a baby. Isn’t she just brilliant? I feel so honored and so humbled that she would write a poem– and not just a poem, but THIS poem– about me.
I have met them all: theologians and warriors,
but when they told me of this one they call God,
I could not understand.
But she reached through my world of broken glass,
reached through my barriers as if they were not there, and she
held out words, her precious, sacred, crafted words.
“It is not much, not good,” she tried to tell me,
“But you can read it.”
And when I did, I understood what the theologians could not tell me.
For this story was a mightier warrior than any I had met,
and I began to understand a mystery,
a mystery called “Christ in us, the hope of glory,”
I began to understand because the swans lamented.
So in the end she gave me this gift:
a novel that told my own story back to me,
with hope in the end.
But perhaps it was not this that reached me, after…
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