My Altar Cloth

When a woman makes an altar cloth, so far as she is able, she makes every flower as lovely as the graceful flowers of the field, as far as she is able, every star as sparkling as the glistening stars of the night. She withholds nothing, but uses the most precious things she possesses. She sells off every other claim upon her life that she may purchase the most uninterrupted and favorable time of the day and night for her one and only, for her beloved work. But when the cloth is finished and put to its sacred use: then she is deeply distressed if someone should make the mistake of looking at her art, instead of at the meaning of the cloth; or make the mistake of looking at a defect, instead of at the meaning of the cloth. For she could not work the sacred meaning into the cloth itself, nor could she sew it on the cloth as though it were one more ornament. This meaning really lies in the beholder and in the beholder’s understanding, if he, in the endless distance of the separation, above himself and above his own self, has completely forgotten the needlewoman and what was hers to do. It was allowable, it was proper, it was duty, it was a precious duty, it was the highest happiness of all for the needlewoman to do everything in order to accomplish what was hers to do; but it was a trespass against God, an insulting misunderstanding of the poor needle-woman, when someone looked wrongly and saw what was only there, not to attract attention to itself, but rather so that its omission would not distract by drawing attention to itself.


Kierkegaard's Purity of Heart Is To Will One Thing is my favorite book. I must be truthful and say that I appreciate all of his works. I'm not certain what exactly called my mind to this passage this evening [or rather early this morning], but I know why my thoughts recalled it: I am trying to make my altar cloth.

I have spent the last 8 hours or so working on my job application for IJM's summer internship. I am absolutely exhausted, but am ready and willing to accept that my sleep will be minimal until Christmas comes. In all honesty, I have never slept here as I could sleep at home. [My father once said I'd learn that home wasn't a real place, and you could never go home again, but I disagree.]

Either way, I have been beating myself senseless to get my resume perfect, my cover letter praiseworthy, and my writing samples impressive beyond doubt. Then came the part that was most difficult: my statement of faith.

I'm still working on it of course, and exhausting is teeming over my weary eyelids. Somehow though, I am embolden to press on, because there is something more at stake here than how tired I am tomorrow morning. This is my altar cloth. I watched Chariots of Fire Today and the line that caught me was "God made me good. But he also made me fast. When I run I feel his pleasure."

I am ready and willing to recognize this post makes no cognitive sense, but I'm not sure that matters. After all, this is my talking to my father and the words don't always have to be lyrical for Him to hear me. When I'm on my knees I feel so powerful - the God of the universe is LISTENING to me, for as long as I would like. Oh the love in my heart...

That is what I pour into my quest: the love He shows to me, the blessings he has given me, the love that is overflowing in me. I pour it into this one thought, the unitary goal of being where I need to be to do what I need to do to BE whom He wishes me to be. If you cannot understand this, this quest, this goal of mine, look past the crooked stitching please. Please. Please hear their voices and please see the infinate depth of the Almighty's love for them behind my tears.

Please.