Striking Distance

Middle America is sleeping. Three strangers play a pickup game of skate long after business hours like bowling balls striking the lane surface. The time is little, but adds up to the final score. Leap into the air. Sail going on now. Faces gleam during the rotation like shoe polish. Each letter gained by improper foot posture on an out of control skateboard down the row of stores slaps covered sidewalk. Another chip makes you think.

The process of elimination spells out the dream. No mattresses required. No foot traffic to impede the pathway. A cosmic truth displayed in the undivided focus: in Christ you have been brought to fullness. He is the head over every power and authority. Fix your eyes on the center windowpane; the crown of pain raising the dead lying on beds. The living hope through the resurrection of Christ has no birth defects and will not be trampled upon by political animals. The Firstborn has the supremacy; reestablish your connection to the head. The Father’s sinews are always in striking distance.

The Head on a navy blue t-shirt stands firm in mixed media as the board spins to master their tricks. Our arms, hands and feet opened for the flash of light chases away the shuttering shadows. God’s actions of love is caught striking the newly created mind over and above regulation hours.