"But oh father, it is you that has called them, and has redeemed them all by name."

"Can their shame turn to sorrow, 'till forgiveness and grace unfold?" -Mark Mathis.

The raindrops echoed in the seemingly deserted monastery. An eerie feeling settled over me, as I realized that each raindrop sounded like a foot step. The ceiling leak dropping in the bucket was slow and rhythmic.


Plink, plink, plink.

I settled back with my hot chocolate and watched the window, fog rising and obscuring the view outside. I thought about turning on music, seeing as music was my sanctuary. Always safe, always comforting, always there. A universal language. Everyone can understand music.

Something was holding me back, however. I could only sit and listen to the sounds of the falling night, breathe in the humid air around me. I was held back in deep thought, the consequence being a great deal of consonants and vowels banging around in my head. The real struggle was my slowly articulating emotions. The language of the heart is very hard to put into words.

Plink, plink, plink.


I stripped myself of jewelry, my scarf, a jacket, and my shoes and stepped outside into the cascade of drops. It felt comforting, somehow. I could see the rain's endless tirade leaving it's mark, washing away the impurities of the earth. I could feel the slickness as it ran down my arms and off of my hands. I was being washed with the world. But it was only an outer cleansing.

As I slowly moved through the pooling water beneath me, shoes in my right hand, I was remembering. No matter the feeling, no matter the discomfort, I knew. I knew everything would work out as it's supposed to. I had been called clean and redeemed by name. I had been given purpose. The world will always try to knock whatever hope I have inside of me out onto the sidewalk, broken and bleeding. It will try and bring me to my knees and keep me there. But if I can manage to stay alive....if I can manage to remain standing when the bell rings, then I have been victorious.

I headed back into shelter, dripping wet on the outside, yet somehow feeling cleaner on the inside.

Plink, plink, plink.


As I returned to my now-not-so-hot chocolate, I couldn't help but smile when I sank into my favorite sanctuary in the form of the gentle melodies of Mark Mathis. As long as I was standing....

As long as I was alive.

But give me to a rambling man, and let it always be known that I was who I am.

My parents were welcomed with open arms, like long awaited heroes. My older brother was quickly brought into the worker's home, and given a place of honour at their table. My two younger siblings were treated with kindness, hospitality, and often bemusement by the workers gathered around them.

But as for me, it has taken me much time to become used to my surrounding. Even now it's strange. I was one who didn't find her place, and though treated with a great deal of warmth and sincerity, I was looked at as though they suddenly had found a sparrow in their kitchen, and weren't quite sure what to do with it or how it could be of use. Sparrows aren't common in places of human habitation, you see.

With each passing day I am reminded of desires I had buried to rid me of pain, dreams I had all but forgotten in my misery, and tears I cried as I would fall into a restless sleep as a child. Living here has been quiet, each day bleeding into the next, the church bells tolling out the passing of each hour. I'm given time to remember that I had been denied elsewhere.

As a young child I would imagine grand adventures with bravery and sacrifice, unconditional friendship and devotion, tragedy and celebration, tears and smiles. I would see myself moving forward with my friends, the ones that I never quite found. No one that I had met saw the world the same as me. But now that I'm older and reflect on this, I realize that in reality, they could not see the world that I saw at all, for I was not living in it, and neither were they. It was I who was an alien here. I was a sparrow. And sparrows aren't common in places of human habitation.

I used to fight with my parents everyday. I was selfish, as children often are, and couldn't see why I could not have things as I wanted them. I was stubborn and opinionated, something that has followed me as I approach adulthood. I was young and wild and often untidy. I was loyal and devoted. I was full of passion and I was a truly romantic child, in the full definition of what romantic is.
"Characterized by strangeness or variety; suggestive of adventure; suited to romance; wild; picturesque;"
I was not any parents idea of a perfect child.


Sometimes I wonder what might have been if I was a simple and contented child. Certainly it would have been easier. It's quite painful to realize they might have traded a sparrow for a kitten, precious and compliant and vulnerable, pleasing to the eye, and a welcome addition to any family's kitchen. My sister is a kitten. Kittens are common in places of human habitation.

I grew up musical and fearful of failure. I took any rejection or criticism hard and personally. It was difficult for me because I could read people like billboards on the side of the freeway, and often what I learned would overwhelm me. I spent my days outside in trees or running through creeks, hiding in books, or creating something in my mind or with my hands. I would get frustrated because no matter I would do, I had critics waiting to tear it down. I longed for unconditionally loyalty like I would show to my friends to be shown back to me, and freedom to create on my own, away from watchful eyes and judgmental spirits. I was dreaming of learning to fly.

These days pass me by, and I find myself wanting very much to fly away again. Open the cage door and let the sparrow free. I need to have adventure. How can I find that in a world as cold as this one? Is there no more magic to be found? Must I give up my romantic ways completely, so that I drop them even from the deepest chasms of my heart and mind, in order to survive with people such as these? I pray not. I pray I find my trail and blaze it. I pray I not only dream, but live.

I will say this. Sparrows may not be common in places of human habitation, that much is true. But they are common in the sky. And soon I might join my brethren and brush the heavenly places with my fingers, proving I'm without a single doubt, alive.

The QC and me.

Charlotte was a beautiful, trying, much appreciated season in my life. Yet for some reason, I haven't cried yet. Maybe I won't. Maybe this change will inspire me. I have this feeling I'll probably find my way back one day. But until then, with so much love, goodbye my beloved city. I'll miss your sounds and lights and movements. I'll see you soon.

I'll see you all again soon.