(I wrote this back in March)
Writing is flying a kite, and as of late I have been trying to fly it with a stiff iron pipe. Holding the cold metal in my hand I should know better – I’m merely trying to hold my kite to find the pre-approved Jesus section of the sky. And I’ve endured enough sub-par creativity to know what a failure kite-flying is under such stiff direction.
I pull a loose yellow cord, bright with hope and fearful lack of control, from my front pocket to attach to the kite. The bright cloth dangles loosely from the string, and perspiration rolls from my palm to dampen the cord. What control do I now have? A running start of inspiration, a frantic toss into the air, and dragging the kite along until it catches the winds and begins to climb. The wind bucks and weaves, bellows and quiets, and the satiny square floats upon the gusts, what I can only pray are the breaths of the Spirit.
This is no child’s kite, to crash into branches and electrical wires with laughter, because my nerves have been sewn into the kite and my pulse is visible in the string. Crash it may and crash it will, but I crash with it. Tear a hole in the fabric and bleeding scrapes appear on my hands; bend the frame and my bones begin to ache. Yet once again, I will coil the cord and gather my feet and relaunch. I will crash and crash and crash again, but I must get up each time. Cord taut, stained red, I was built to fly.
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