Blessed

are the pure in heart, for they shall see God.

In between the steps and seats and bustle of slow-moving bodies, part one of this New Year’s resolution has come easy, brought unexpected understanding: taking the Word on the page, etching it deep, beckoning it to the outermost extremities to the places known by all. These measures of time, they were waiting to be exploited with the systematic, habitual Words, the ones that bring real revolution. It’s been too long since this mouth has been tamed.

Blessed are.

At the end of the day when my feet cry sore, on those same wheels moving sluggish, I rehearse the lines again.

Blessed are.

I mull and my pupils spread wide and it’s like I have sight for the first time—how absolutely poor and wretched this blessed life sounds and when did evil utterances become joyous and oh, God, the kingdom is at stake.

My eyes, the soul, it keeps finding that line again and again, the one with the seeing.  

Isn’t this what it’s all about—my sustenance, this restless spirit’s one desire? Beholding. Glory. Miracles. Grace. Handiwork. Himself. 

A pure heart. A cascade of words form murals in the mind— the inner organ that has found a lightness, uninhibited by bitterness or shame, rigidity or weight. A heart, whole, with just One in its vision. Childlike faith, innocent expectation. Sweet freedom, unhesitating affirmation.

Caitlyn, pure one, the Irish identity whose real meaning has long eluded me. Morally pure? Sexually pure? Why and what for and how can I be released? It seemed to carry with it the weight of far more bondage than freedom, burdened with expectations and standards.

How have I been missing these words for so long?

Purity is an emancipation for the soul, a gaze upon the Sublime.

I rejoice!