I don’t know why our shit makes the best art, but it does. The worst parts of our lives, become glory. He seems to form Himself mostly within our wounds. And that’s where our authority seems to boom and bloom-the part He lays closest to in us. The gory parts become His Story. Maybe we are God’s compost. It’s a gothic story. Stinky proof of redemption. Maybe because we are being real with ourselves and others out loud and begging for The Cross to be true, maybe just because me and you, need to see someone limping and vulnerable to relate, or maybe because we are just falling out loud in clouds of becoming what we were meant to be. Anyhow, at the end of the day, as we pray, we know how related we all are in our stumbling forwards, through the stench of ourselves, and into the other glory…and prayerfully, upwards, as some sacred incense us, burning to become…though we still stink down here. And yet, are somehow being made One.