I’ve seen the broken down house on highway 287 cinderblock walls, only rafters left for a roof, a gaping hole where a once presentable exterior used to be. When I drive by my broken down heart— though jaded and cynical by all accounts— is filled with brutal longing. I fantasize about pulling the car over and rushing to what was once the doorway and running my hands over ruined cinderblocks and wood until the love of the place would change it like a Resurrection— a new house from these crumbled cinderblocks. maybe this is how I know I really do believe in all things made new— one day— my heart like the cinder block house, all coarse and rough will be smoothed out with sandpaper the walls rebuilt to safety, the shutters painted, the door flung recklessly wide— (because being whole and loved will do that to you.) and what meals we will share! in a kitchen once marked by ash and rubble, with fruits from the garden growing wild out back just because it can there is nothing to stop it. The ruined house on 287 reminds me of what sometimes seems so terribly easy to forget— that I really do believe in the Resurrection.