Pitter, Patter. A Young Man in the Outer Bluegrass Hills.

Article by Ezra Smith

For his anger endureth but a moment.

Breath in. Deep.

Breath out. Slow.

In my room, I pace. Not only in the space left between the window and door but also in the valley of my mind. I ping-pong between the reality that I’m okay and the deception that I’m not. I’m furious. I feel hurt but undeserving of help. I'm tired, yet lazy and privileged. I’m broken but too proud to be built up by someone else’s hand. I can’t grab hold of a single thought or feeling roaming in my mind without rebutting my own validity. I can’t make sense of myself or the things happening to me, so I ride. And as I leave, I grab my clinking coagulation of keys and chains, taking firm hold of St. Christopher as I do so.

In his favour is life.

The brisk morning dew settles itself on the world a rest. I’ve known this land since I was a child and have felt its lure consistently throughout my life, calling me back and tempting my aching soul for a taste of home. My nose twinges amidst the sharp freshness of this bucolic Kentucky air. The dull grogginess laying a burden on the backs of my eyes fade as creation at large unfolds beneath me. At last, just me and the beauty of all that is. I put in my key and turn awake the sleeping beast. Birthed the same year to see Elvis perform in front of his biggest audience, and around long enough to see its’ way to me—the rumbly growl of its vintage engine, fighting off the compacted coolness stored within. I mount my 500cc stallion, holding the weight of its faded maroon shell and open silver engine between me and the Earth. Pure power. Combustion and sheer momentum. Right underneath my palm. Right in the grasp of my fingertips.

Weeping may endure for a night.

I take off into the wind, leaving behind the mist steaming from my eyes and the fury burning in my heart. Clutch in, shift up. Racing through the alleyway of amber trees with a mind full of nothing. Clutch in, shift up. I want to fly; I want to flee from all I have bound myself to. I want more out of this life; I want to give more to others and reap the reward of feeling content. I cry into the dusk evening, screaming my bitter complaints into the abyss before me, the deafening wind forcing me to choke on my own emotions.  Clutch in, shift up. As I slice down State Route 499, Brassfield Bybee Road fades into Panola Road with the guiding hand of a white painted sign leading me towards ‘Panola Church of God’.

But joy cometh in the morning.

Breath in. Deep.

Breath out. Slow.

There’s something beautiful about impermanence; the charcoal dusk smell of evening in the fall, the warm patter of engine exhaust kissing my leg. Thank you, Lord, for blessing me with impermanence. The fog in my head clears upon the view before me. My breath leaves and I’m left gazing at the rolling, ancient hills guiding me through their catacombs of secret one-lane roads. Thank you, Lord, for blessing this life with incomprehensible beauty. Everything placed here in time and space, not one thing in this world we could create more in the image of perfection. I like that. I like to think that in this placid beauty I am here by intent. Not by accident, not by mistake, but because of the will of God. I smile now. I am not just a child to my parents; I am not just a child to the materialistic bonds of language and color. I am a child of intention, creation, perfection, and love. I am born to this Earth, made in the image of something that never was or ever could be. Chaos is the peace, and vulnerability is the understanding. Thank you, Lord, for everything you leave unknown. Faith only comes in the presence of doubt, there is no leap of faith without standing over the cliff that is worry.

Amen.