Jack-of-All-Trades

master of none.
oder, Hansdampf in allen Gassen.

He knows stuff.

He knows a little bit,

a little bit about almost everything.

He knows about whatever you're talking about, to an extent.

When he doesn't, he can smile, nod convincingly, and say just the right things.

His list of soft skills runs around the block and back.

But, stick a needle into his inflated facade of cultural capital,

put him in real, practical situations

where life is short, shrewd focus is required, technicalities abound, and results matter,

and

watch

him

deflate.

the chills

you had begun to become acclimated to it,

the onset of the humid subtropical

springsummer.

but, in drops a cold front, unexpectedly.

most days, you would happily welcome any unanticipated visitor,

but this one caught you rather off guard, out of balance.

the hawkish drafts bring with them

silly doubts, foolishness, buffoonery,

a dire scarcity of wisdom and direction.

no matter how the nippy winds cackle as they bluster past your eardrums,

lose no faith in the promise of a plan

and the understanding that will come with it.

Nichts.

Nothing can for sin atone
Nothing but the blood of Jesus
Naught of good that I have done
Nothing but the blood of Jesus

the wind

it does its thing again.

your clothes begin to billow around you,

and furrows make their way through your hair,

making you well aware that

you will soon be at its mercy -

adrift.

no matter how much you insist

that you've had more than your fill of liminality,

it gives you another hearty helping.

"eat up."

this oncoming gust is not your first.

you've experienced this many, many times,

and have learned a thing or two along the way.

you know this is not all in vain.  there is purpose.

you know that, thanks to grace, it'll be okay.

but, that air charging past your skin

feels oh so chilly in the meantime.