Your Song

Dear Eugene,

Yesterday at a dollar-store a song was playing, vociferous, drowning out cynicism by its sheer force.

It sang of love, unfaltering devotion, something to beat the incredible odds against an eventual death.  It demands of me a suspension of disbelief, a poetic imagination, a great faith.

A young lady dressed as a security guard leaned against the backdrop of toxically colorful cheap toys, on the strength of a pillar too narrow for product placement.  How much do they pay people to guard $1.25 products?

She didn't hear the song.  (At least she didn't show it.)

White noise.  Cacophony.  Something that does not concern her.  Like a Facebook post by a mother not yours about her lovely time with her lovely kids, an Instagram picture of a father getting a room ready for his almost born, name picked, technicolor dreamcoat on the cotton-candy-filtered bed, loved a thousand time over already even in the darkness of watery chaos.

Her hair is soft and her eyes are oh so blue
She's all the things a girl should be,
but she's not you.

To trust Jesus is to trust God loves everyone indiscriminately and recklessly, that we are called to likewise in everything we do sing to everyone the impossible song of God's undying devotion, that if I love my kids I would learn to love all children, if I am preparing a room for my son I am just as eager to bring others to my Father's many rooms.


It pains me to know how I have misunderstood Jesus all these years.

Yours, Alex

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