Those of you who know me know that I’m a very private person when it comes to the things that matter to me most. Please don’t misunderstand me to mean I consider myself secretive. In fact, it’s been one of my life goals to be as honest with myself as possible, and to share that honesty with others. If you want, I’ll gladly tell you every idea I have on any subject you like: love, politics, religion, science, art, whatever. I’ll happily discuss my own failings, fears, dreams, and fetishes for as long as you wish. I’m a very busy person, so I typically try to keep the information I volunteer short and to-the-point — but I’m quite pleased to oblige if more detail is required.

In my estimation, most information, like most knowledge, doesn’t mean much if it isn’t free to be shared. In this sense, I think the facts and feelings I have accumulated should be freely available to anyone. For my computer-savvy pals, these data are CC0.

But, when it comes to shared experiences and feelings belonging to me as well as someone else, I’m infinitely more private. For instance I rarely go on and on about how much I love my family. That’s a bond we share — and I feel awkward discussing, in a sense, “giving away,” something that’s not mine to give. My relationship with God often also fits into this category. The time I spend with Him is ours, not mine to trivialize and sully by blaring about it to everyone I meet. But, today I was reading Psalm 12, and got to thinking that the record of these deeply personal shared experiences is a big part of what makes reading the Bible so meaningful. So, I thought I would share one of these personal moments. Here’s a poem I drudged up from the “Private” folder in my computer. It’s supposed to be Christ who’s speaking:

I am blacksmith, not a jewler.
My strength is not precise.
My art is to bludgeon forms
Finess cannot suffice.

My eyes do not sparkle,
My tools are blunt and dull
But I am patient, old and large
And silent as the hills.

And I will singe your spirit,
And you may come to harm
My heart is my scarred hands
Coarse and brown, but firm.

My spirit is not hard.
It is earthen, warm and dark –
And unafraid of tears,
Being trod upon, or work.

My passion is my steadfastness
In seeing past the lies
In hearing the cry behind your scream
In trusting when it isn’t wise.

Stronger still than fickle hate
My love is bands of steel
I will bind myself to you
As long it be your will.