Questions are always better than answers. Questions create movement. Questions allow for cross-reference. Questions generate thought. Questions are dynamic. Answers do not. Answers are final. Answers end the game. Answers place the peg squarely in place. Answers are static.
Holding the door at church is the worst job for an introvert – conversations are sure to ensue. Yesterday, as I did my ecclesiastical duty and held the door on Easter Sunday for those with hope against all hopes, it happened…again.
“Have we met?
“Yes. My name is Lj.”
“Lj? Does that stand for something? Oh yes…Little Joe.”
“Littlejohn.”
“You’re moving, right? I believe I prayed for your move recently.”
“Nope. I recently lost my job, but I am not moving.”
“Oh. What do you do?”
What do I do? Good question. But the answer eludes me. I used to think I helped. I used think I provided. I used to think I created an environment where questions were asked and answers were chased up barren mountains and down through lush valleys only to narrowly escape capture. I used to think I practiced bringing the culture of others to the door, knocking, and watching who opens the rap-tap-tappity-tap. I used to think I sat next to those giving birth to new ideas with new words for the chance to see a new world. I used to think I asked more questions than answers were given. I still do. But my classroom is smaller, and I am now both teacher and student. I now ask only the basics – when. I do not have an answer. That would end the journey. The waiting would stop. Faith has no foothold in certainty. So, I wait. I wait in fear. I wait in tears. I wait patiently. I wait in hope. I wait in anger. I wait in expectancy. I wait for answers that do not come. I wait.
“I wait.”
Muddled Soma 