I often find it hard to believe I live in my body. Am I really the short, bespectacled teenager I see in the mirror? Apparently.
That I am indeed anchored to such a shell is all too obvious when the mosquito bite wedged between my pinky toe and the next toe over refuses to let me ignore it, or when I stub that itchy toe on a suitcase (Didn’t I tell Natalie to stow that?!) on my way to the bathroom. But when I’m in bed, my arm under my pillow, listening to Phil Wikcham’s voice soar high, “I can’t wait to join the angels/And sing my heaven song…” Well, it’s easy to forget those sounds are canned in a tiny, buttoned device, traveling to my brain by way of a long cord fitted to speaker in my ear.
Sounds a bit like a SciFi/fantasy novel.
Maybe this all means I’m insane, perhaps attributable to my love of SciFi/fantasy novels.
My soul, for now, really is and remains attached to a body. And so does another Soul, the Soul of God. To my body! My shell! Somehow, dwelling in my suitcase of a body, with my soul, brings glory to its Creator.
Still sound SciFi/fantasy? As much as my life reminds me of that, it reminds me more of a true story. About a King Who left His throne to fight a war for a people who hated Him. A King Who died, and won by virtue of dying. And returned. Not the way Aragorn returned—even though I love Aragorn, this is better. My King was legitimately dead, but He came back!
That’s a pretty satisfying true story for a life—especially, miraculously, mercifully my life—to be based off. A true-than-reality story anchored to my soul and body.
So I guess I’ll wait in this body a little longer, the way one waits at a train station for the three o’clock. I’d much rather be free, but I’ll serve my King any way I can. He gives me more to do than skim magazines, praise Him.
Maybe He can even use me through SciFi/fantasy novels.