At 3 0'clock in the morning the whole world is an broken old shoe. At 3 o'clock in the morning all your regrets sit quietly at the foot of your bed. At 3 o'clock in the morning all your old loves come to visit, your losses whisper their names, your youth skips stones from the other side of the river, all of it a peculiar madness cloaked in a seemingly ordinary sanity.

There is no ritual to rescue me from the existential emptiness that yawns like a cavern in the middle of this night, no incantation, no prayer that will suffice. I am Jonah in the belly of the whale, Jeremiah weeping at the bottom of the well, Saul searching for a boy David to sing a lullaby. I am a valley of dry bones.

I know nothing. Absolutely nothing. There was a time when I had the answers. I could explain biblical doctrines of ridiculous complexity with clarity and ease. I knew what the questions were. I knew where in the bible to find the answers to those questions. I was saved. I could tell others how to get saved. We could say the prayer, together, you and I . Then you could be saved. The deal would then be done, the bargain struck, the contract signed, the ticket punched. Then all you had to do was go to a bible-believing church every Sunday, read your bible every day, pray every day, study to show yourself a workman approved, always be ready with an answer for your faith, not cause a brother to stumble, know your mission field, say "here am I, Lord, choose me."  Tonight? Now? In the compelling quiet of our little home, with the Resident Love Goddess sleeping so wonderfully and peacefully a few feet away? Well, let me tell you, I have absolutely no clue what I'm doing, I have absolutely no idea what I'm talking about anymore. I've got nothing except that woman I love so much, and two red cats, and this broken old shoe and Jesus, somehow mixed up in it all. 

I think about the same things all the time now. I think about preaching. I think about starting a church. I think about God, and Jesus, and the Holiness of Spirit, and about the pains and hurts and loneliness and lies and busted up hearts and lives that are all around, every day, and about how I just want us to put one in the hand of the Others and see what happens. I've stopped telling people about this in real life because they inevitably insist that I am doing exactly that and,  while they're speaking, there's a voice in my head that wonders if it might not be better to just shoot myself in the foot with a nail gun, over and over again, rather than to try and explain what empty is, just one more time. The only thing I can do now with hurting people is talk pretty about Jesus, offering just enough information to suggest that maybe they ought to talk to him and not me, because I'm a truckload of destitute on the road to nowhere in particular. Sometimes folks here ask me to pray for them, and sometimes we pray together, an exercise in plumbing the depths of inner desolation that always ends with the same three words: God help me. Those with whom I bend the metaphorical knee seem grateful and comforted by this, and I have no explanation for that, either.

And so, here I am Lord. And it's 3 o'clock in the morning - again - and, well... damn.