From “The
Human Condition: A User’s Manual,” by Arnold Kunst
26 December
At regular
intervals I find myself, whatever the circuitous route, at Unload Time. I am
called upon to flush out the lines, clear them of the cholesterol of self-pity
and more or less willful self-delusion. God's boundless vitality cannot
co-exist with deified stupidities, nor can it permeate through them to those I
am meant to touch who clamor for it. I've given Him good chase for all these
years, but maybe, just maybe, He'll win after all. He longs for me to flush,
purge, clear of energy-sapping protrusions, become the properly bored pipe
through which His music rings true to a world addicted to cacophony. He longs
that I be centered upon Him, ever centered; in turn speaking with His
authority, silent in His tranquility; a Little Drummer Boy for a few moments
playing my drum for Him, bringing to fruition the talent He gave in the first
place, then standing head bowed, arms limp, spirit finally poured out, and
empty to be filled by Him Who is all in all. Called upon, at the end, to know
even as I am known...
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