dear god: this may not come as a surprise to you, but i don’t really know what i’m doing. ~ i see so many claiming to understand you perfectly, to know just exactly what pleases you and what disgusts you – they all seem to get it, to not struggle a bit with the idea that they claim to understand every last detail about the Creator of a billion galaxies. ~ but i do – struggle, that is, to understand why and how and that you love me. ~ little old me. ~ i’m not even a star, or a planet or moon. i’m just blip, one speck of the human race that in all carnal understanding is quite dispensable, disposable. ~ i certainly don’t begin to match the glory of a galaxy or a fire of a planet (especially not after i’ve just woken up). i don’t always obey my Creator or orbit just as i should or shine with the magnitude of the sun. ~ sometimes i just stop, too afraid or too lazy or too overwhelmed to continue on. half the time i don’t even know which direction i should be going. ~ i, for one, don’t understand you. i doubt i ever will this side of the stars. but then i pause and consider how you’ve hung the stars in place, how you’ve drawn the orbits of the planets, and i find a glimmer of hope that you might possibly know what you’re doing, even if none of the rest of us do.