Will Not - Believe Not
Why are you not a saint? WHY?
The tone of O.C.'s roar is a mixture of desperate love song, passionate appeal and murderous threat. In the moment, all I can do is repeatedly blink, wondering if he actually expects me to answer the question. My confusion is relieved, or rather aggravated - it all depends how you look at it - when he gets me off the hook and graciously answers his own question.
It is either that you do not want to be a saint, or ...
I close my eyes tightly, shuddering with expectation for the next blow.
... Or that you do not believe God can make you one.
I cautiously open my eyes, wondering if he is done or should I expect another swing of the mallet. Feeling a bit dizzy, I am somewhat surprised that I am still alive after all this pounding. It's not just my head that hurts... I feel like my entire body has been pummeled and battered. But, despite the pain, deep down I know I got exactly what I needed, if perhaps it wasn't quite what I expected or wanted.
Having accomplished his God-given mission for the day, O.C. slowly sets down the mallet, looking ablaze from the inside out as he stands in the morning light. Then he crawls back onto the top of my nightstand, makes himself comfortable, and peacefully goes to sleep.
So far, I've only taken a sip or two out of my first cup of coffee. And I feel quite awake, thank you very much... in fact, perhaps more awake than I ever care to be at such early hour of the morning.
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