hmm...

Let me ask for your patience. Trying to figure out this blog is a bit like darning old [my thoughts are old; I've got nothing to share with you that is new] grey socks for the first time. Ever. I'm not quite sure what color thread [design, content] to use, because I think they would look cute with lime green thread, but then I remember I'm not the one wearing [reading] these socks [blog.]  hmm...I'm not sure how to go about this in a unique way, being a little behind the times starting a blog. But then, so what if it's not unique. Every pair of grey socks is different, right? I forgive you if you are bored. Or confused.
hmm...Should I apologize if these words I am spitting through the tips of my fingers embitter you or frustrate you?
But who are you to tell me who I am.
I have a secret to share with you:
I'm sick of secrets.
Darkness, sneaking, lies, deceit, fake-ness..hmm...
I'm just trying to impress you, so you think I'm "calidad", as my dear Guatemalan friends would offer when asked for the translation of "cool".
I want you to tell me who I am, because I'm quite confused, a bit like one of those purple pipe cleaners you glued to a paper mache mask in kindergarten or made into caterpillars with fuzzy pompoms. I'm like a purple pipe cleaner that was supposed to take the shape of the finger it was placed on, but it won't come off smoothly and perfectly, it gets a little twisted and crooked and distorted as it's pulled off that delightful index finger. You are that finger. You who, if I meet and drink 3 cups of tea with, will try to imitate. If I were a Jewish boy, I would give you a Hershey's Kiss and 200Q if I wouldn't be one of the top students of a Rabbi. I would be covered, absolutely encased, in the dust of my Rabbi. Rob Bell would be proud. I can just about taste it, I can taste the flavor of following Christ with my whole heart, soul, and strength. It kind of tastes like bananas dipped in chocolate, or roasted cocoa beans with honey and chilies, or avocados with salt and lime. I think that's also the taste of freedom, of joy, of identity, of reality. hmm...
Jesus, touch my mind, touch my heart with your delightful fingers. You probably don't nibble and pick at the skin around your fingernails like I do. I wonder what your hands look(ed?) like. I wonder if you had hair on your knuckles, or how many splinters were embedded in your calloused palms. I wonder what your voice sounded like when you sang. What would you have sung about? What lyrics would you have dropped for John or for Peter? What rhythms would you have made for Mary or Judas using an old oil jar or plate or wooden box? I wonder what it was like to celebrate with you. I wonder how your skin wrinkled around your eyes when you threw your head back and laughed. Did you giggle, or bellow, or wheeze when you laughed?   
So I sit back against the concrete wall and sigh, hmm...
Oh, life.
All these questions. All this trying to figure out who the heck I am. I think I'm giving myself a headache.
Let me drink more water and listen to "I Have to Believe" by Rita Springer one more time. They say that helps with headaches. Drinking water. hmm...
I don't think I've found what I'm looking for.
But I think I can taste what I'm looking for.
It tastes like bananas covered in chocolate and roasted cocoa beans wrapped in honey, and avocados mixed with salty limes.
I think I'm looking for Jesus.
hmm...