Two half dead ferns hang in my office. Someone rescued them from the front porch; I fear my inattention would have killed them. In front of me lies an open Bible, a closed Bible, a foam form for a wreath (the ribbon for the wreath rolls happily beneath my desk), an advent calendar, two cell phones and assorted schoolbooks. My coffee cup is decidedly empty.

I came to write, but I’ve run out of words. (Or maybe I have too many, log jammed at my fingers and refusing to spill) Images flood my mind. A girl stands in desolate ruins, dare she rebuild? Another flirts with one who is not her husband on the bridge of a space vessel, in a far away time and place. (whoa boy, that’s a contemplation on another ancient prophesy that I lack the brazenness to finish) Holiday shoppers pull their coats a little tighter against cold winter winds, oblivious to a war happening all around them, in another dimension. A group of teenagers ride a train into Eternity. Captives languish under a yoke of oppression, and an ancient prophet pleads with me from the pages of the Bible still open before me.

I see connections where there should be none. I see the answering machine blinking at me “two missed calls”.  The phone died and I’ve neglected buying a new one. Reality beckons. Time to refill the coffee cup. Put on real clothes. Put on a couple loads of wash. Be sure to leave the house with enough time to buy a new phone. Maybe even water the ferns.


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