I Will Sing

I want to be loved for who I am, not what I can give--not what I can make someone feel. Sometimes I have conversations with myself about who I am and who I want to be, and I say to myself, "Don't let yourself go to anyone who loves your body more than your soul.." But do you know how hard that is? So many people see you and meet you and form an opinion of who you are before they have even had a conversation with you, before they even know your name. I don't know about you, but I don't wear my emotions, or my soul, on my sleeve. My eyes don't portray the pain I've felt and the creases in the palms of my hands can't tell you all the places I've been. And so many people only see the sheen of your hair or the flash of your smile--the curve of your hips or the spring in your step--and yet, they don't care to know who you really are. Appearances are so misleading. Smiles are so deceiving. And the words of the song run through my head tonight as I count down the hours to a new year: who will love me for me, not for what I have done or who I'll become.. I want to say there is someone like that that I can give my heart to. I've wanted that for a long time, and I will most likely always want that. Women were made to crave love--well actually it was a curse placed upon us for our sin--we will always long to be loved and love will evade us. I know my Savior's arms are open wide, and He satisfies my every need, but you cannot deny that there is a part deep inside that wants to be cherished--humanly. We all want someone to think about us more that we think about ourselves...we all want someone who will love us even after they have heard all our stories and all our secrets--even the dark and terrible, even the nightmares. I've been sitting here in this dimly lit room listening to the clock tick, knowing that it won't stop, but rather usher in a new year...and I'm trying to be happy and excited, but for some reason I can't stir my soul. I'm thankful for what my God has done and all that He will continue to do, but at the same time I'm tired, and my soul is weary. This past year has been both a joy and a heartache. It will be forever marked as the holder of past mistakes and cruel days, but my God has shown Himself to be the Bestower of light and the Great Giver of days and of life--greater than any day or any year or any earthly tyrant, whether breathing or seeming.

It was this year, only a few hours away actually, that I was told that he wanted to marry me.

It was this year that my life and heart were changed at a camp I had never been to, and with people I barely knew--waist deep in snow.

It was this year that my family was torn at the seams with not only one, but two trials before a stern judge. 

It was this year that my sister realized she was falling in love--and this year that I realized I wouldn't have my sister next to me for very much longer.

It was this year that my heart was torn from my chest when I realized a love I had professed wasn't real.

It was this year that the home I loved and adored was taken from me and given to another. 

It was this year that I kissed my high school days goodbye.

It was this year that I sat behind the wheel of a car--hands sticky and heart uncertain.

It was this year that I felt so empty, and yet so full. 

This has been a year in which my biggest struggle, unavoidable, has been to move on. Whether or not I wanted it, whether or not I cared. And I have to confess, I'm scared for a new year to come. I'm scared of the uncertainty and of the possibilities of failure. I need to look up at the stars and re-focus my heart on what truly matters. I know not how many years I have left. I may have one, I may have twenty, and I may only have a few breaths left, but I know no matter what--through it all--thick and thin--that I have a God who is bigger than any mistake I could ever make, more forgiving than any crime I could ever commit, more faithful than I could ever be faithless. 2014, I want you to be a year filled with my faithfulness toward my Savior, I want you to be a year in which I conquer fears that have held me prisoner for so long, and I want you to be a year in which I can raise my arms every day to the sky and proclaim the joy that I have in my deepest of hearts. 

As this new day dawns I will sing of a love that never fails, no matter how much I may crave. 

As a new day dawns I will open my eyes to His wonders anew--and I will sing because I have been redeemed.

 

Tears in Dust

How many times must I fall flat to the earth before something in my life turns out for good? How many mistakes must I make, how many tears must I cry, how many times must I kick myself until I lay upon the earth seeping blood? Every time I let my heart cry to someone other than itself it only gets kicked again, and so it only shrinks away from any hand, any heart, any love. I have said that I will trust and obey more and more each day, but I can't stand, I only cry and shrink. Is every man out for blood? How many times must I fall before I learn to walk? Oh my dear God, I can't love anymore, oh my dear God, I can't live anymore. I want to sob into a pair of arms, I want to be held secure while I sleep, knowing that nothing can harm me and nothing will try to take away the little I have left. My heart feels a hollow shell of pain, my life feels like an empty disaster, and every time I feel like I could not possibly feel  more pain I find my face smeared in mud. And the dreams of my childhood return, where everyone meant to harm, and every place I went was to escape something I was running from. The woods were dark and deep and so very cold. Every pack of wolves bounded to snap at my feet as I ran, and every tall form meant only to strangle the air from my lungs. Every pair of hands reached for my throat, and every path that I was lead down went straight up a cliff until the person I followed turned and threw me to my death. My eyes would dart into the shadows and see pairs of eyes following me, and if they didn't find me, they would drive me insane until all I could do was lay down and die--eyes wide open with fear. It paralyzes me, this fear, and my eyes hold nothing but pain and tears masked by a sheen of indifference. Why do I feel so alone in a house full of people? Why do I feel so abused and used when no hands have touched me? Why do so many enemies lurk in my mind, why do so many words knock me to my knees, my face, until my stomach lurches within me and I struggle each day to eat? I close my eyes for the day has turned dark, but inside my eyes are eyes watching me, and waiting--I know not for what, I know not why they stay, can't they see that I'm too empty for them to steal anything else away?

The faint scent of smoke reached Llenora's nose, and she struggled to pull her mind back to consciousness. Her arms felt heavy as lead and her body grew wet and clammy with heat, but still she could not awake. The struggle was too hard--it was easier to just fall asleep. Somewhere deep inside was screaming at her, but the words were garbled, and then, slowly a deep apathy settled upon her mind. She cared not, what ere may come, all was already lost.

Somewhere in the Past

With every step I take I sink farther back into the past; I remember what has been with a vague awareness. It's the same feeling as if I stepped into a novel and became someone I didn't really know. As if the story that has unfolded before my eyes is merely that: a story. And slowly I realize that the things I dream don't describe who I really am.

Llenora closed her eyes and sighed deeply. Her back ached from sitting in one place for so long and her eyes burned with lack of sleep. The sheets of paper lying on the desk were as bare as they had been hours ago and the pen was held limply between her fingers. The little mirror propped in her writing desk shone with the dying embers of the fire. Taking the mirror, Llenora looked at her tired face--the dark circles, the sallow complexion that had stolen away her bloom, and the lifeless hair that once had shone in the sunlight. Nothing was the same as it had been, and all at once, everything that she never thought would happen to her had come crashing down...leaving both her heart and her life in ruins.

She watched a sadness creep into her eyes, and then, slowly, the glass slipped from her cold hands to drop to the floor. Llenora picked up her aching bones and crawled up the stairs to her bed. The room was cold, the grate empty. There was frost on the glass and only cold water in the basin, but her mind had dulled and thought only of rest. Shivering in her nightgown, she pulled the old quilt over her head and for once, allowed herself to truly forget everything. Forget everything and sleep.

A Ghost with a Crusted Heart

I know that for the few who of you read my blog these words have gotten old, but when a soul is overwhelmed, it can only sing one song. The words and feelings have grown old to me, but every moment that I think the scars healed they burst open again into gushing, seeping wounds...the kind of wounds that everyone tries to ignore and forget. But they are still so real to me. So real that it seems surreal, as if I am the one who is a dream. As if everything around me is not quite real; I can touch it but that doesn't mean that it will last. Every feeling fades so fast and all that remains is a dull numbness that won't go away no matter what I do and no matter what I say. I have become a ghost with a crusted heart. I have had so many hopes and so many dreams; so many plans that have crumbled at my feet. So many things that I wish to be, so many things I want...and yet when my mind snaps back to reality what do I have but a crusted heart. Reality is so painful, and every day I hate it more. I feel that hate crusting my seeping heart more and more, and yet all it does is grow. A teacher once told me that "bitterness is the only poison that destroys its own container"...and I feel it slowly killing me, eating at my bones and my soul, but it hurts so much to have everything you loved and hoped for stripped away until all that is left of you is a naked body at the mercy of a harsh winter wind. My little crusted heart seeps and cries and tries to heal itself, and then it grows hard, but when it struggles to beat it breaks open its own wounds again. It's an ugly cycle that never seems to end. And who wants to care for a heart with so many cares...who wants to nurture a heart that can only struggle to beat one more pulse? I feel so selfish, as if all that I want is only for me...as if the things that I love and I want are wrong. I know it's not true, and I know I shouldn't feel this way...but it still eats me. I long and I long and I long for love and yet I am so afraid to love. Every eye seems to have that evil gleam, and I feel like a wounded bird in the sights of a vulture. I want to hide away...oh dear God, I don't know what to do.

After All

Sometimes I think I'm too sentimental...it's when I can't stop thinking about the giant oak in the front lawn that I'll be leaving. And I wonder if I'll ever have the blessing of living on .49 acres again. It saddens me to think that I'll never be able to sit up late in front of this fireplace that has known so many of my fears and dreams. Silently watched me cry and warmed me with its piping flame on many a winter night. I want to see again the Christmas tree in the front bay window of my home...I want to see the reflection of the Christmas lights and see the snow laid deep outside. But it shall never be, and it makes me ache inside like I've never ached before. Maybe it's the fact of all that's come before, and maybe it's the reality that I'm losing the one thing that I thought I'd never lose. And the culmination of events just makes the horror worse. I shrink from each passing day knowing that soon there will be a day when I have to say goodbye and never come back. And it breaks me so. And I don't know what to do.
I want to curl up and fall asleep and to wake up knowing that it was only the deepest of horror dreams, but I know better. I've made my life a dream and a dream my reality for so long that it's hard to wake up and realize which is actually the truth. It cuts me to the core, for how can I experience the joy of Christ Jesus when I make myself stay numb to all the pain and ugliness around me? How can you be joyful, and yet numb? How can you both sing, and have a lump in your throat? I don't understand. I don't understand at all, and it makes me cry and shudder and shake inside. Most of the time I conceal my emotions well and I hide them inside for no one to see, but other times it's all I can do to utter a word without choking. So I lock myself in the bathroom and cry out my pain and frustration to God, hoping He'll hear me, hoping He'll somehow turn all these bitter tears into something good after all.

So Many Bitter Tears

Every breath, in and out, I struggle to hold back bitter tears. It makes me struggle to breathe and my heart screams and cries why within. This is my home--mine; why is everything that I love taken away from me--why? This is all I've ever known. I've walked up and down this hall for nineteen years; my first steps were taken here, my first words were heard by these walls that have grown to laugh and cry with me. And my heart screams out to my God why, Oh my God, why. Why are we put through so much pain, why do we have to have all that we value stripped away from us. I want to wake up and realize that it was all a horrible dream, but no, I wake up from nightmares only to realize that they seem beautiful to the daylight that I have to wake up to face. I don't know what to do anymore. I fight so hard to hold back a flood of tears--I have to be the strong one, the brave one--I have to. And yet on the inside I'm shriveling up and drying into an unknown something. A girl like many others who has had everything stripped away and has seen more pain that joy. I've seen joy, yes, but like Job, I ask God why He ever deemed to breathe breath into my lungs if all my days were meant to see such pain--meant to end in such a horror story. I guess it must be true that you don't really realize how much you love something, or someone, until it's gone. And by sorrow of heart the spirit is crushed. That's what I am--crushed.
And yet, no mere words can express the crushing depth of sorrow inside my little heart. Until you see my tears you cannot understand the truth of what I say.

A Breathing Corpse

Before today I wouldn't have believed that flesh and bone could turn into solid rock. Rock so hard that not even the fiercest quake could break it. My life has been at the epicenter of a massive quake; the tremors pulsate through me over and over again until my stomach lurches and drops to the ground and all I feel is numb--as if my heart has been torn from my body, ripped out by the coldest eyes and hands and heart, and the pain is so deep that all I feel is a dull numb pulsating pain that echoes through and through my very being. Until my legs are nothing but water, until both my lips and my hands shake uncontrollably, until even my eyes dull and glaze over as if an actual blade plunged deep into my heart, and all I am left is a breathing corpse. All I have loved has been stripped away, and yet I'm forced to stand and watch it all be given to another--another who does not realize the worth of what they possess. I never thought this would happen; I never imagined that it would go this far. And I ask myself over and over--how could a man be so diabolically wicked as to wish to destroy the life he called his own for 32 years? How cold and hard is the heart of a man who cares not even a fig for his own flesh and blood, but rather wields all his resources, words, and power to destroy every semblance of joy they possess. How cruel is a father who does not care, and blatantly says he does not care, that his daughters live in a cardboard box.
I do not understand.
I do not understand at all.
People do not realize the depth of their own evilness; the capacity for evil that they carry inside themselves every waking moment. They don't care who they hurt; they don't care what impurity spews from their lips; they don't care that they destroy not only their own lives, but others also when they commit deeds that overflow their lives with a darkness that can never get enough. Oh how deep is that darkness--oh how oppressive. And yet they long and long and long for it like it will satisfy the craving inside their soul. They dirty their minds and bloody their hands, and yet the emptiness still screams inside them until one day their soul crumbles in on itself, like a liver shrivels in an alcoholic's body.
There are so many people--oh so many who are entrapped a darkness so deep that all it does is eats their soul. And while it eats their soul, it seeks to destroy all others. I've seen such darkness; such darkness I know is even in the depths of my own soul, but it does not have to rule my life and my heart. I'm not sure what is worse, to be controlled by the darkness, or to be the victim of it. There is pain in both; there are scars in both.
It's so painful to be a victim.
So painful to be a victim.
I know not how to wake up in the mornings anymore; I know not how to smile and laugh and feel my heart bubble with joy. All there is is a thick heaviness--a numbness that makes my head ache and throb and my stomach lurch and sway. My heart is so sick, so sick. I cannot write; I cannot read; I cannot play; I dare not eat; I cannot drink; and I cannot, oh I cannot, sing. I have never felt this deep an ache before...I want to sink into the floorboards and melt like heated sugar. I want to wake up in another place and another time--away from the pain, away from the heart-ache, away from the impurity, away from the darkness. I feel so utterly weak; I feel so entirely afraid. Afraid like every eye is watching me, like a vulture, crow and wolf--just waiting for my foot to catch on a rock--just waiting for me to stumble and fall. I feel so hunted; as if every other soul is clawing to eat up not only my flesh, but my heart as well. I look around myself in this big, wide world and all I see is a crowding darkness, and all I see are greedy hands and eyes. So unsafe, so afraid. Every soul has its own ambitions; even the ones that seem so pure and gentle, and yet all they want is to use and abuse; all they want is to gratify themselves, whether it be lust or control or pride. I hardly believe in love anymore. I hardly trust anymore. C.S. Lewis has said that if you wrap your heart up carefully and give it to no one, not even an animal, that it will become impenetrable and irredeemable...but if you give it to something it will be wrung and possibly broken. My heart has been wrung; my heart has been broken, and I know what it feels like to jealously cling to it and wrap it up so that the bleeding, pulsating, life-giving thing won't die again. But I grow weaker as I cling, and this trembling increases. I feel only like fleeing--but where can a heart go when the enemies are inside too?
All I long for is light and purity; all I long for is love.
And what fills my cup? Only pain, hate, and loss.
And now, all I can do is shake and cry and shrink--shrink from any other form of life.

A Heart of Compassion

There is so little compassion in the world; so little. It amazes me how often people just shrug their shoulders and walk away as if it doesn't matter. It doesn't matter to them, but it does matter. If you were that person in that situation, you would want someone to care for you, and help you, but the flip side of the coin is so different. I feel that pain and hurt, of so many people knowing, and not even caring. I see neighbors drive by who once used to be friendly, but now just stare as if you were anathema. I hear people laughing, and then discover that they used to be friends, but when I walk by every mouth is as silent as the grave and their eyes follow you as if you were a person stricken with leprosy. Everyone has pain in their life, and everyone has those things they wish to hide, but if that's the case, why then do many of them act as if you were the only person in the world who ever had nightmares. I hope I shall be different the older I get and the more life I live. I don't want to be one of those people who shrug their shoulders and walk away; I don't want to be one of those people who don't have time for people. I don't want to be labeled a "yuppy" or a "high class snob." My life hasn't been perfect. It is in fact blotched with so much black ink that there isn't a spot of white to get dirty. You may not necessarily see it, but I do. I want to be that kind of person that stoops no matter what level they're at; I want to be that kind of person that helps every other kind of person; I want to be that kind of person that shows a love that is not of the world, but from God. I know my own personal insignificance, and that knowledge frees me to help others because others are more important than myself. That is the kind of person I want to be. That is the person I will be.

Wallowing

Today I feel like the only thing I truly am is ingenuine. One moment I act one way and then the next I'm another. I don't understand. I'm so unsure. How can this possibly be right? I feel the moments growing more and more, I feel the weakness growing stronger and stronger. I'm not just unsure, I'm unsure of myself. I'm growing more and more insecure as the days go on. And I don't understand why. I know who I am in Christ, and I know that I am loved, but the feeling still lingers in the back of my mind. It's like a fear that I shall be rejected for who I am, but at the same time I feel as if those who know me don't really know me. And I feel tossed upon waves of confusion. It's as if all the dreams I've ever dreamed are of no use because they will never come true, because no one will believe me, because no one will join me, because nobody cares about my dreams. All they see is theirs. You could argue me all day about all the faults in my feelings, or the wrong motives I may have, but I'm not claiming to be right, I'm just writing what I feel. And all I feel is so lost, insecure, and yes, even unwanted. I just need someone to reach out and care, not for what they can get in return, but because they really want to help. I'm tired of being used. I try to care for and about others all day, every day, but when can I have someone turn around and care for me? Everybody has their own little romance, their own little path. I should be going to college right now. I should be learning to do what I love so I can have a successful life, but I have no way since all my college fund was spend by whim. It never occurred to me just how much self esteem a person gets just from having loving parents. My mom is loving, and she's always been there, but what do you do with a father who wants nothing to do with you unless you let him play you like a piece on a chess board. The love of a daddy. That's what I've missed. That's what I still long for, and it's what I'll never possess.

And I'm screwed up inside. I long and I long and I long, and my heart trembles uncontrollably until my breath comes fast and a sharp pain pierces me between the lungs. Simple words slice and plunge themselves deep between my ribs, and I lie here bleeding from many open wounds. But no one sees, because they're all inside. Hidden wounds, internal bleeding. Can no one see the hurt behind my eyes? Can no one see the lump that gathers in my throat and forces me not to speak? 

There's so much pain, there's so much pain. But I cannot cry. I cannot cry. 

Gardens of Weeds

I must confess I have a fetish for glass bottles and glass jars and glass vases...and almost everything else glass. Like windows. I enjoy seeing, and I love light. I read once that natural light is the photographer's worst enemy, but whoever wrote that doesn't know the value of light. For without light, photography isn't even possible. There is no beauty but the natural beauty; no love but love from God. You may think my view narrow, but I believe it to be true. Man is inherently evil; just look around you and you can see millions of examples walking to and fro up and down streets around you. Just look at your own heart, or if you prefer, you can look at mine; we all have seeds of evil inside of us, waiting to grow and sprout into noxious weeds that spread and take over every area of our lives. They wrap their tendrils around every beautiful flower and choke it out, until all that your heart and life is is a overgrown garden of weeds threatening to spill out and contaminate all you come in contact with. But everyone you come in contact with, or even don't, has the same problem as you do. Even I do! We all do. Even if we convince ourselves that we're perfect. We're all little children inside, pretending to be big and strong enough to pull the weeds, but they just won't give. And when we realize they won't, we strut around like roosters with a lot of poofy feathers saying we like the weeds in our garden. But do you really? Are you happy, are you satisfied? Or are you really empty and bitter inside, always wishing for something else? I know not your heart, but I hazard to guess it's a lot like all the other millions of hurting and bitterness-filled hearts walking around. You are definitely not alone in your pain, or your problems.
I have good news for you though. There is, my empty-hearted friends, a Great Gardener who is perfectly capable, and willing, to pull every weed in your garden and instead plant beautiful flowers, all the colors of the rainbow. He plants seeds of happiness and joy; blessings and abundance. But only, only, if you invite Him in. Now, there will still be days where those noxious weeds sprout up again, and some might even begin to take over the flowers again, but as long as the Gardener is there, they won't last the night, but instead wither and die, forgotten. Some days rain will come and pummel the beautiful flowers until they lay down against the muddy earth, stained and beaten, but no storm lasts forever; the sun will certainly come out again. Some days there will be harsh winters, where snow covers every semblance of color, and all you see is whiteness, and all you feel is coldness. But have no fear, after every winter comes a spring, and after every spring comes a summer, and the flowers will bloom again. If all the days were spring, or all the days summer, you wouldn't appreciate the beauty of the flowers or the warmth of the sun on your skin. In life some days must be filled with pain so that you can feel the ecstasy of joy.

On the Receiving of Orders

All I ever wanted was
  A roof over my head
All I ever wanted was
  A place to lay my dead
All I ever wanted was
  A father, mother--dear
All I ever wanted was
  A brother, sister--friend
All I ever wanted was
  A full and happy heart
All I ever wanted was
  A bountiful and overflowing hearth

But instead, what do I receive
  But a empty, hollow world
What do I receive but
  An unnamed patch of dirt
What do I receive but
  A father angry, mother torn
What do I receive but
  A cold and bitter heart
What do I receive but
  An empty nest, a hollow flight
And a grave unmarked but
  Not even put out of sight.

Everything Beautiful

Today I read the passage in Ecclesiastes 3--how there is a time and a purpose for everything. A little later it says that God has made everything beautiful in its time. Now, before I really thought it out, I thought that "in its time" meant like the day, or the year, or the century when it took place. But then I thought, everything doesn't exclude things like broken relationships, murders, etc. It rather includes them. But then Wiersbe's commentary brought Romans 8 to mind, that says that God works all things together for good. And it clicked! It's not that everything is beautiful when it happens, but rather it becomes beautiful over time as God uses it for His purposes. So even though I may be struggling still, one day these messes will all be beautiful--but only through Him. Right now my job is to trust and be faithful.
Jesus, help and sustain me; give me the courage and love to open up my heart to You completely and be fully, irrevocably, changed.

A Mud-stained, Longing Face

I know not whether the moon is full tonight, or whether it is a sliver hanging low in the sky. I don't care to wander in the woods tonight, or even rise up from under this warm blanket. Tonight I am content with my curls falling over my shoulder and a cool night wind brushing past my shoulders and grazing my skin. I read about Job and all he went through, and my personal tragedies seem so minuscule, so tiny, so insignificant. But if they were really so, then what would be their point in my life? I was reminded again tonight that God does not care so much about our comfort, but rather about our character. And even in the midst of horrible, painful storms that confuse us and knock us about, God is faithful. I have no need to fear, and no need to worry, because no matter what comes my way, if I'm standing on the Rock, and if I'm sheltered within Him, my crevice and hiding place, I shall never be removed. I can never be removed, even though both hell and man try to pry me out of my Father's loving hands. No matter how small the burden, or how big the blessing, or vice versa, my Abba has a plan in it all--to grow me, His precious daughter, into the purest treasure. He looks at me through the blood of His Son, and sees not a blotched and sin-stained girl, but rather a redeemed and purified treasure; already pure and perfected by the Lamb's great work. I am so amazed every time I realize that this God I call my own stooped down to pick me up out of the mud, and He calls me to walk with Him every waking and dreaming moment. He asks me not to brave life alone; He asks me not to bear the burden all alone; He simply asks me to walk with Him. One may fall down, and have no one to pick them up, but if there are two, the other can pick up his brother. Tis only I who fall, my Papa never tires of reaching down and gathering His trembling and dirty daughter back into His great, good arms.

One Step Back

The chapter (3rd of Job) starts off with two little words: "After this..." Two tiny, almost insignificant words, but they hold a world of meaning inside themselves. Before them, all Job's family and wealth had been lost, and his health was broken; his God had seemingly abandoned him, and his friends came to him silent with mingled grief and respect. And so had passed a week of silence. A week of sitting in cold ash; a week of mourning so deep there were no words. Then Job spoke; and he broke the silence with a curse. A curse upon the day of his birth, and not only that, but even the day of his conception. He wished vehemently that not even God would remember it, but rather that it be forgotten and the day itself obliterated. He even went as far as to call upon those who regularly uttered curses to rouse up Leviathan, a fearsome sea dragon, to curse the day of his birth. But then the question arises...why does he wish all that? I and my commentaries believe that Job felt that the pain surpassed all the joy of his life, and if God would allow all that, why had He even created Job in the first place. Just to ruin him? So many times I have similar thoughts-they may come in disguise, but they are there. Job may not have blamed God for his calamity, but he wondered why it was allowed to happen. But we cannot see, and most often we are not allowed to look into the record book of God's plans; we may not understand the why's of our pains and tragedies, but God still has a plan for them all, and while we may only see the pain, He sees the beauty and perfection being wrought underneath our skin--in the depths of our souls. The most beautiful jewels, though, are formed when you are in the furnace and you still cry thanks and worship to God as King; when we remember His joys and blessings of past days, and realize that more are still to come. So as these hands tremble as I think about the future, and my soul moans as I think upon the past, even in all this, I shall remember as he did that truly, "the Lord gives, and the Lord takes away; blessed be the name of the Lord!"

Bright and Better Days, pt. 1

I know you have been waiting for the continuation of the story of Job, right? Well, I hope so, because we left him sitting in the dust, ashes to be exact, scraping his oozing, broken body with a shard of pottery. Not the most pleasant of things, I am sure. Then along came Job's three friends, Eliphaz, Bildad, and Zophar. These three guys met up and decided that they would go and comfort their mutual friend Job. I was trying to imagine what it would have been like to be one of these guys, because the Word says that when they were still a long way off, they saw Job's condition, and they lifted up their voices and wept. When they finally reached Job, they sat with him, silently mourning for seven days. Not many people in today's society would stop for even five minutes to offer condolences or to help those who were broken, but these men stayed a week by Job's side. Without even saying a word. Now that, is friendship. But I must continue now. After this week of silence, Job spoke what was on his heart. I wish that I knew how he had spoken these words-- whether he whispered them in anguish or spat them out of his heart like bitter water, but alas, I do not. The words that flew from his lips were words of a curse--a curse pronounced upon the day of his birth. For Job said: "Let the day perish wherein I was born, and the night in which it was said, there is a man child conceived. Let that day be darkness; let not God regard it from above, neither let the light shine upon it. Let darkness and the shadow of death stain it; let a cloud dwell upon it; let the blackness of the day terrify it. As for that night, let darkness seize upon it; let it not be joined unto the days of the year, let it not come into the number of the months. Lo, let that night be solitary, let no joyful voice come therein." So deep was the pain of the man named Job that he rued the day he was born. I would like to say that I understood and could sympathize with Job over the depth of his pain, but I doubt that any person now or then could fully understand. But he cursed, as some days I feel like doing; he was angry at the circumstance and the pain that he was experiencing--and that I am as well. There is so much to learn from this man named Job, so much that I do not yet comprehend or understand. And so I see I must end my day again with an half of a story, and a prayer that I should not remain hardened by the scarring wounds of this world, but rather look beyond to the blessings on the horizon--bright and better days.

Nothing but Pain

Some days what can only be described as a perfect rage floods up inside me; it makes my head ache and my stomach churn within me. A knot forms in my throat and all I feel is a pulsing anger at all the pain and all the people. I know what you're thinking, and I know that mine is a horrible view to have, but it is the truth. All I feel like is lashing out again and again, all in an effort to protect myself. So many people only seek to hurt; so many people only seek to tear apart; so many people only seek their own, and it makes me burn inside. And then the rage inside me is replaced with a hollow, aching bitterness that rots my bones and steals both my color and my joy. Oh that the world was clean and every man pure and good. As it is all I long to do is escape from every single soul but my own and live a life of solitude. People whisper words of appreciation and adoration, speaking lies as they tell you that they love you, and then they turn and abandon you, or they manipulate and use you. How could I ever seek love again? The words "I'm sorry" don't cut it; they don't strip away either the damage or the pain. I feel my head grow heavy and weak, and my eyes narrow in pain. I have no desire to seek love again. I have no hope in human affection. All I long to do is crawl away and live by myself under a lone and wide and sprawling tree. 

As the Deer Pants

Well, I feel like a low-down I don't even know what today. Or right now anyway. Oh Jesus, this is one of those "You know my heart" days. I must feel like slinking into a hole and hiding away-not even caring anymore. I know that that is a wrong attitude to have, but as sure as I'm breathing, I have it. It disgusts me-and yet I cling to it all the more. How ridiculous humans are. Just plain fool ridiculous. I'm sorry for my huge mess of sin, Jesus, I'm sorry for all my selfishness and plain ordinary absurdities. I admit that I want not only myself, but everything else around me to be perfect, and I fear it is creating a monster. It sickens me. I don't even know who I am or who I am supposed to be, Jesus. You, I know I could argue that too, but you know what I mean even more than I do. Oh Jesus, I just don't know what to do. There are so many, many things whirring recklessly around in my mind tonight. Help me to remain fixed on You, Jesus no matter where I and what what I do-or what I don't know to do. Make me like You, Jesus-I long for You and to be like You. For as a deer pants for flowing streams, so I pant for You.
Psalm 42:
I'm panting after You, Jesus, as the deer pants after the cool stream on the mountain's face. The deepest part of me-it longs for You, and it thirst like it has not been filled day after day. My own heart cried out to me-pleading-"When shall I come and appear before God?" Oh God, my God, Your love amazing, Your greatness everlasting. Oh Jesus, I long for You here and I long to be rid of this whole mess and just be with You. My tears have been my food, for my soul is anguished within me and the pain and hardships of life are overwhelming. So I cry. And I cry. And I pray that I would cry to You, and not to myself-leaning on You and following and trusting Your will rather than my own. Which I sorely-desperately-need. While I cry, my heart and those around me ask me where my God is-both in the pain, and in the joy. All these things, I do remember, and I pour out my soul to You, Jesus. I need You more than anything else I could ever dream of. I used to "go with the throng," and I would lead people to the house of God-with glad thoughts and songs of praise. But Jesus, my soul is still downcast within me-it rolls like the waves of the sea and cries it's own mighty waves. But I, Jesus, will hope in You, for I know I shall again praise You.

Tears Caught in my Throat

I'm not sure many people realize just how little things, material things mean until they find themselves with nothing. It doesn't matter whether you have the whole world or whether all you have is a rock you just stooped to pick up out of the dirt--in the end you will still be empty. So empty, without Christ. I always heard growing up in a Christian home that there is a God-shaped hole in all our hearts, and it wasn't until I found myself completely empty that I realized how true that really is. There is a God-shaped hole in every heart, because every man was made to be with God, and every man rebelled. I rebelled. I walked away. I faltered, and I fell. But God is sovereign, and God is faithful even when we are not.
So as I sit here, looking around me and cherishing every moment I have left in this house that I have called my home since the day I was born, I realize again that God is sovereign. I may not, okay definitely do not, understand why, or what purpose God has in this, but I know He has one, and I also know that His plans are to give me a future and a hope. Even though I'm sitting here near-hopeless and at the point of weeping away all moisture in my body, I trust Him. Because I know that whatever happens and whatever may come, He is with me, and I am precious in His eyes, even though the whole world despise me--even though the whole world, it seems, is searching to draw the life-blood out of my veins and spill it on the ground, I will give thanks in all circumstances, for this is the will of God.
So I'll sit here and listen to the crickets chirp, and feel the breeze blow sweet and low. I'll be thankful for the time I have, and not bitter about the time I don't.

Calmed to a Quiet, pt. 2

It seems so unearthly, so unnatural, that I shall be soon ascending a witness stand and testifying before, as my mind imagines, a stern-faced judge, both for and against my own flesh and blood. If you had approached me even today a year ago and asked me if I ever imagined doing such a thing you would have found me shaking my head in horror. The funny thing is that I'm still shaking my head in horror--in unutterable anguish of spirit. An anguish of spirit so similar to that of what Job, our "other path person" faced, but overcame.
We ended before in the middle of a long nightmare. All that Job had was snatched away--was burned up like chaff in flame. In hot, burning, tortuous pain. And yet, he lay on the ground, face in the dirt, worshiping God, something that I am ashamed that I do not do as I should.
The next scene of the story is somewhat familiar...Satan has appeared again in the throne room of God Almighty. He hasn't changed what he has been doing much, for he hasn't stopped walking up and down the face of the earth. Then God said, "Have you considered my servant Job, that there is no one like him on the earth, a blameless and upright man who fears God and turns away from evil? He still holds fast to his integrity, although you incited Me against him to destroy him without reason." But that devil Satan had an excuse. I can just imagine his face twisting in disgust and his whiny little voice saying, "Skin for skin! All that a man has he will give for his life. But stretch out Your hand and touch his bone and his flesh, and he will curse You to Your face." My first thought would be: goodness, what gall to say that to the Maker of the universe, the very God who threw you, Satan, out of Heaven to wander the earth in hate and bitterness--what gall to say that Job would curse God to His face. Sheww. Glad I'm not him.
But we shall see that Job proved Satan wrong. So wrong, in fact, that Satan had to use his back-up plan. And not only that, but he ended up slinking away defeated. And he didn't show back up at God's throne room saying "Ha, ha!" either.
But I'm running ahead of myself.
Satan, after making such a bold, defiant remark to God's very face, went out from the presence of God and struck Job with a terrible case of "loathsome sores" that covered his entire body from the sole of his foot to the crown of his head. I am pretty sure that I would have screamed in torment and ran wildly throughout the village pulling my hair and begging someone to shoot me. Well, maybe not that dramatic, but you get the picture. Apparently Job and I are not the same person, because he calmly sat where he was, in a pile of cold ash. I can imagine him sifting his fingers through the white dustiness and finding a piece of broken, red pottery, forgotten and useless. I can see him holding it up to his eyes and looking at it...then looking at his oozing body. And he scraped his flesh with the broken piece. Not saying a word, just enduring his agony in silence. What is the agony of body though, compared to the agony of spirit when one has lost what is most dear to him.
I know not how long the silence dragged on, but Job's wife was apparently having a harder time than Job, because she came to him and said, "Do you still hold fast (to) your integrity? Curse God and die." But Job, patient Job, spoke softly in return, "'You speak as one of the foolish women would speak. Shall we receive good from God, and shall we not receive evil?' In all this Job did not sin with his lips."
I, my friends, am ashamed. I am ashamed of my lack of faith, my lack of patience, my lack of perseverance in the face of trials. Literally, in my case. God has taught me time and time again that He allows things to happen in our lives--things that are the result of the free will of all men--to refine us as gold is refined in the fire. A lump of gold dug straight from the earth isn't worth much, but after it has been melted and the dross removed, over and over and over again, it becomes more and more pure. Until it is as clear as glass. I need to be willing to endure, and be willing to grow through every trial so that I am not a black chunk of stone, not even a polished nugget of gold, but a clear, smooth piece of treasure, so that when others see me, they shall not see me, but see God on the other side, shining through and using me for His glory, and His great, good purposes.

Calmed to a Quiet

I woke up worried today. Then I went to church and instead of becoming calmed and Spirit-filled, I became distraught and resentful. When the prospect of losing everything you love flashes not only across your mind, but also reality, your very life, it creates a certain bitterness and emptiness that is un-fillable. And it longs. And it craves. And when it does not become filled but instead dries up more and more until your heart feels like the driest desert on earth, a painful, empty bitterness and anger takes over until all you can do is wish there were tears of sweet fulfillment to drink and moisten your empty cup. But even fulfillment does not moisten the dryness of bitterness away. It just makes it grow until all you do is lash out, lash out, lash out...until the day that you die.
But there is also another road, a road less traveled, and in human eyes, more bitter than the first. And that, my dear friends, is the pathway of the man of God named Job. I don't know how many of you have heard of the story of Job, but it begins with Satan making an appearance before God. This conniving scoundrel had been wandering up and down the earth, and had taken notice of the man he could not foil. The man who trusted and depended upon God deeply enough not to stumble. Now, mind you, he was not sinless, but he walked in the ways of God. He was humble, gentle, persevering, and repentant--a man in whom God was pleased. Now Satan had noticed this man, and had come before God requesting that he test Job mightily to see if he would cave to the pressure and deny his God. Don't ask me, because I don't know why God said yes to Satan, other than the fact that He was testing Job's faith as gold is tested in the fire--as to be refined-- but God allowed Satan's test to proceed; with the exception that Job's person should not be harmed.
"And the LORD said to Satan, 'Behold, all that he has is in your hand. Only against him do not stretch out your hand.' So Satan went out from the presence of the LORD."
The next series of events happened in one day--now mind you, not all "kingdoms" fall in one day, but Job's life was completely destroyed. "Now there was a day when his sons and daughters were eating and drinking wine in their oldest brother's house, and there came a messenger to Job and said..."
AND HE SAID...your oxen were stolen (1000 in all), your donkeys were stolen (500 female), your servants were killed...and I alone have escaped to tell you. While that man was talking, another rushed in AND SAID, fire from Heaven fell down and devoured your sheep (7000) and your servants...and I alone have escaped to tell you. While THAT man was still talking, another man rushed in AND SAID, the Chaldeans made a raid on your camels (3000), killed all your servants with the edge of the sword, and I alone have escaped to tell you. AND THEN (one more, I promise), while that man was still speaking, another breathless servant came rushing in and exclaimed, your sons (a whole seven of them) and daughters (only three of them), were eating and drinking wine in their oldest brother's house and a great wind came across the desert and struck the four corners of the house so that it fell and crushed them all to smithereens! (I'm sure he didn't say it exactly like that, but you get the point), and I ALONE have escaped to tell you!
Man, what a day for Job. In the morning when he had gotten up, he had taken inventory of all he had. One wife: check. Seven sons: check. Three daughters: check. Seven-thousand sheep: check. Three-thousand camels: check. Five hundred yoke of oxen (which makes 1000 since there is two in each yoke): check. Five hundred female donkeys: check. AND a very many servants: check. Would you say Job had it made? Yeah, I think I would too. And now, not many hours from the moment he looked around with a smile on his face and joy in his heart because of all the blessings he had been blessed with, Job--Job the great and wealthy, loved of God, tore his robe, shaved his head, and fell on the ground....and worshipped. I can not imagine the agony that was ripping through this man's great heart. What was all his wealth to his children, his precious children. I can imagine the sobs of the four remaining servants of Job and the wails of his wife. And Job, face in the dirt, sick with pain...worshipping. How can a man worship when he has received, not minutes before, news that all he possessed and loved was gone? I do not understand.

"And he said, 'Naked I came from my mother's womb, and naked shall I return. The LORD gave, and the LORD has taken away; blessed be the name of the LORD.' In all this Job did not sin or charge God with wrong."

Oh my Lord, that I would have the faith and patience of Job.
But the story is a nightmare only to be continued...

A Wave High Above My Head

Hebrews 12:3 is my verse for the day-it says: "Consider Him who endured from sinners such hostility against Himself, so that you may not grow weary or fainthearted." How much oftentimes do I find myself growing weary, and very fainthearted-to the point of having droopy hands and weak knees. Oh my Jesus, I am struggling to keep my head above this deep pit of mire that I seem to be sinking in. I know this is not how You intend me to be-You with the gift of the joy of Your salvation, and just the fact that you are not a God who has any part in confusion or fear, but rather of power, and love, and a sound mind. Oh Jesus, I've just been trying not to think about what's coming-but it's not working. I'm ashamed to say that my faith is small and weak and fragile, so far away from how I know You want it to be. I want to pray for a miracle, but at the same time I'm scared, that my prayer won't be answered in the way I want it to. I feel as if I'm a failure-I have a pulsing, nagging pain in my head, and at moments it's all I can do to keep from falling on the floor and just curling up into a ball while I sob-and just die.
But I will still reach out my hand to take Yours; I will still trust You, even in the greatest of trials.

You, My Crevice

In You, oh God, I shall take refuge-You shall be the crevice that I seek shelter in in the midst of storm and gale and heat; I will flee like a bird to You, and to Your holy mountain, for the wicked men have fitted sharpened arrows to their bows, and they point them at my deepest heart, but Your Word says that their sharpened arrows are shot "in the dark at the upright in heart."
I know, Jesus, that You protect Your children, and I know that no matter what happens in this world,  the hearts of the upright are always secure in the palm of Your hand. But Jesus, I'm scared. I feel as if everything around me only has to sniff to sense the fear brooding in me. I crave for absolution; I crave for release; I crave for this mess to be over, and yet it drags on and on and on until us, it's victims, are drained and dried-shriveled images of who we were. I know You work all things for good-I know Your Word is sure, but Jesus, "if the foundations are destroyed, what can the righteous do?" I know Your hand and arm are mighty, and I know Your love runs deep; I know You are the most faithful, and I know You are the truth. Help me to fathom your joy, Jesus. Help me to believe-to trust that You will meet all our needs. And thank You Jesus, for I know that You will.
"For I will satisfy the weary soul, and every languishing soul I will replenish.” Says the Lord, my salvation.

The Difference Between Light and Dark

Stunning as the difference between light and dark, between salvation and damnation, is the picture John Bunyan paints of the differing views of Christian and Ignorance. These two opposite people are both on seemingly the same path to the Celestial City, but their destinations are marked by their beliefs--their beliefs of faith and salvation--and whether they are true, or false.
Faith.  Both Christian and Ignorance know the concept of faith--that it is the act of believing, but they put their faith, their believing, in different things. While Christian puts his faith in the work Christ did on the cross, Ignorance puts his faith in his own obeying of the commandments laid out by Christ. As they walk down the road to the Celestial City, Christian asks Ignorance what he puts his faith in, and to this he replies with “I shall be justified before God from the curse, through His gracious acceptance of my obedience to His law." Christian stands aghast that Ignorance could have such a belief as this, for “true justifying faith puts the soul, as sensible of its lost condition by the law, upon flying for refuge unto Christ’s righteousness." He goes on to explain that true faith depends only upon Christ’s redeeming work upon the cross, and that the debt for sin was already paid. Ignorance’s faith was a “fantastical, false faith,” for “this faith maketh not Christ a justifier of thy [speaking of Ignorance] person, but of thy actions; and of thy person for thy action’s sake, which is false." As these two men compare beliefs, it is shown that one is a child in thought and the other a man planted firm in the truth of Christ.
Salvation.  Even as faith and salvation are entwined, so the placing of faith determines either salvation or condemnation; this was shown as the conversation deepened between Christian and Ignorance. Christian believed that salvation comes from believing and accepting Christ’s gift and claiming His righteousness and name before God the Father, knowing that in himself he was nothing and condemned. On the other hand, Ignorance believed that salvation would be granted to him because of his adherence to the law, for he did not believe that his own soul was sinful and his heart was deceitful, and therefore he had no personal need of Christ’s righteousness to save him. Because Christian placed his faith in Christ, his soul was saved; but Ignorance placed his faith in what he did, and was rejected.
As the tale of Pilgrim’s Progress drew to a close, Christian was seen swimming the river of death, and then was escorted by angels to the gates of the Celestial City, where he was accepted joyfully into the kingdom and arms of Christ, his Redeemer; but Ignorance was seen hiring a boat to help him cross the river, and then climbing slowly up the hill to the gate of the City. At the gate he knocked and knocked, until an angel peered out and asked why he knocked, for Heaven did not know him, and Christ did not know him. He was perceived as an unwashed intruder and was drug away to the pit reserved for those who did not accept the gift of Christ’s redemption on the cross. Along the path the conversation between Christian and Ignorance seemed like a trifle and a matter of no use, but pride and arrogance could not, and never will, earn a place in the City that God has prepared for those who trust in Him.

Trembling in the Night

It is one of those nights again. I long so desperately for love and light and joy and peace. But instead I feel tormented by a mind like a restless sea. The choppy waves tossing up silt and sand. I close my eyes only wishing to forget and sleep, but my dreams haunt me and I wake with a start. And I tremble in my bed. There are so many things that I don't let enter my mind in the daytime for I know what they will do to my heart, but they come in my dreams, and I can't stop them. Tears shed, wars raged, loves lost, my life slipping away. Such are my dreams, and I can't make them go away. There is only One who is able to calm these waters of my heart; only One who can make them calm and smooth as glass. So I cry out. And I lean into His arms--He smooths my tired brow and gives me the rest for which I long. And such sweet rest it is.

Washed in the Blood & Redeemed

Today I'm reading: ℂolossians 1:15-23
JESUS "is the image of the invisible God, the firstborn of all creation...by Him all things were created..."
1:15-20 ; Jesus is the Creator, the beginning and the end-the first and the last-the firstborn of all creation, and through Him my salvation came; it was He who hung upon the cross and shed His blood-so precious, for me ♡
1:21-23 ; I was once "alienated and hostile in mind, doing evil deeds..." but I am now reconciled by the blood of the Lamb ♡ I AM NOW SET FREE ♡
⇒I was reconciled so that He might "present [me] holy and blameless and above reproach before Him..."
⇒He took me, a little girl soiled by the dirt of the world, with ratted hair and stained clothes, with fear in my eyes and scars on my heart-He took that little girl and wrapped her up in His big, loving God-arms, washed her, brushed her hair, healed all her bruises and scars, and took away all her fears-that was me. He cared so much to clothe me: the soul-naked, to heal me: the sin bruised and broken, to erase my guilt, my scars. Oh my Lord, OH HOW I NEED YOU.
⇒NOW :D I stand before the King of kings, a bride adorned in purest white; my stains of impurity are gone, for I was bought back with His blood. Tears of joy run down my face-my King is my Lover, my truest friend, and my Abba, Daddy. ♡♡♡ He holds out His hand, and I cannot hold back the tears of sheer joy as I realize all He's done for me. Oh Jesus, I will rush and run and collapse into Your arms for I AM YOURS, I AM REDEEMED; now I live to proclaim it. OH MY JESUS, THANK YOU ♡♡♡
☞ for now 1:35AM

Tossed Upon Many Waves

The march of drumbeats in the air

Through these cobbled streets they stare

The light it hides and darkness creeps

Up through these walls and quiet streets.

Small children run and hide behind

Their mother’s skirts as soldiers bind

Their father’s hands, their brother’s arms

And lead them off to die.

One day that pounding beat it led

Upon our door, upon our step

They bound his feet and tied his hands

And led him off to die.

A shot rang out and one by one

A body fell and with a thud

Drove deep into the heart a fear

And from my eye there dropped a tear.

I looked at him and as he fell

I saw and felt what seemed to tell

From in his eyes a plea so deep

For me my soul to hold, to keep.

But in his blood another tune

Cried and screamed and ran down through

The cobbled streets to stain the ground

Of innocent men lost in the sound.

The sound of cries heard in the streets

The screams of dying men, to keep

Their lover’s arms, their children’s hands

Bound and woven, to hold fast and stand.

In a daze, not quite alive

I walked so slowly, and by my side

Misery, as a close friend might

Took my arm and took my fight.

So down upon that beach I walked

Walked to and fro and far apart

From worlds and skies and mornings bright

All I could see was his cold dead eyes.

The pounding in my head is strong

So strong I cannot hear the throng

Of voices streaming down the lane

Of wailing children sick with pain.

It’s all I hear, here as I walk

It pulls the air from in my lungs

Until I standing here undone

His slumping form, his empty eyes

Staring back from darkened skies.

The rivulets ran down my face

As this tired soul tossed from place to place

Upon the wind and on the waves

As greedy arms shunned to save.

The waves they pound and on the beach

Reach out to take my by the feet

They pull and grasp and draw me out

To drown my soul with this cold doubt.

It tossed and beat and swarmed until

Just a battered girl I felt-

At the mercy of the waves

Sucked into deepened, darkened caves.

Foaming waters, surfing sea

Roll, so deep, so dark, over me

And close above these tired eyes

Darkness so deep I could not but despise.

I sank beneath those stinging waves

And lost all love and hope and peace

I closed my eyes and gave up all

And slowly drifted into dark.

~

I cracked my eyes and at my feet

Swirling water, foamy sea

Lapped upon me, by my side

Seaweed dripped as if my guide.

The air it sparkled in the light

Of morning love, and joy, and sight

Of my small form curled up on the beach

Not quite dead, just full of sleep.

My lips were parted, pink and full

As the waves woke me with a pull

A gentle tug,a quiet sigh

To reunite my soul and I.

To wake and rise up off her beach

To rise from her bosom where I lay deep in sleep

Tossed to and fro by many waves

Flung here upon this foamy beach

The waves had quieted to a pulsing beat

Not roaring, nor pulling, simply lapping at my feet.

The dawn had awakened the gentler side

Of sea and surf and sand and tide

And God had stooped to give me breath

To breathe once more into this tired chest.

I picked up every limb and bone

And carried myself as the morning shone

Down the beach into the light

For God had saved me from the night.

I looked above, and over me

Flew seagulls, kind and soft and free

And I knew within my heart, deep down

That so I could be- I would not drown.

The waves they roll and at my feet

Lap so very soft and sweet

The clouds have passed, my troubles gone

And in my heart there rings a song.

A song of silent jubilee

For You, my King, have made me see

That life is just a passing dream

But You are forever- holy- King.

The waves they crashed and pulled me in

To suffocate my soul

They beat the rocks and dashed the beach

And tried to knock me off my feet.

But Jesus had His arm, you see,

Around my shoulders when my silent plea

Rose to meet the Father’s ears-

He bent to wipe my many tears.

His hand will encompass me,

And in His arms I will be-

Guarded and guided, safely kept

For all eternity.

I Wish To Be Underneath A Maple Tree

Day after day I long to write, but I have no words, no tongue, no pen. My mind is closed to the rhyming words, and I see the beauty around me but I cannot make it move my heart. I don't know what has happened to me, I don't understand what evil has caught my tongue. All I know is that I cannot write, and though I used to sing, the words I cannot force to come. The birds may sing their happy song, the wind may keep on whistling, but my heart, this heart, is so weak it may only keep on trembling. Maybe it is the lack of fresh air, or the torn tendons of a bleeding heart. Maybe it's a loss of blood, or maybe it's a loss of love. I have no words, this night, this day, and all I wish to do is fall asleep underneath a maple tree. Maybe, oh I so do wish it, maybe my dreams will come back, so I can dream my days away.

Pain

Here I am researching the ministry opportunities for Christian counselors, and the ministry opportunities are enough to make one fall over with the immensity of them. Over and over again, page after page-so many ways for we, as Christians, to be the hands and feet of Christ. He has enabled us to be healers, comforters, ambassadors, servants. And yet where do we sit? At home, on our couches, in front of TVs scoffing at the commercials of starving children. But what are we commanded?

"When the Son of Man comes in His glory, and all the angels with Him, then He will sit on His glorious throne. Before Him will be gathered all the nations, and He will separate people one from another as a shepherd separates the sheep from the goats. And He will place the sheep on His right, but the goats on the left. Then the King will say to those on His right, "Come, you who are blessed by My Father, inherit the kingdom prepared for you from the foundation of the world. For I was hungry and you gave Me food, I was thirsty and you gave Me drink, I was a stranger and you welcomed Me, I was naked and you clothed Me, I was sick and you visited Me, I was in prison and you came to Me." Then the righteous will answer Him, saying, "Lord, when did we see You hungry and feed You, or thirsty and give You drink? And when did we see You a stranger and welcome You, or naked and clothe You? And when did we see You sick or in prison and visit You?" And the King will answer them, "Truly, I say to you, as you did it to one of the least of these My brothers, you did it to Me." "Then he will say to those on His left, "Depart from Me, you cursed, into the eternal fire prepared for the devil and his angels. For I was hungry and you gave Me no food, I was thirsty and you gave Me no drink, I was a stranger and you did not welcome Me, naked and you did not clothe Me, sick and in prison and you did not visit Me." Then they also will answer, saying, "Lord, when did we see You hungry or thirsty or a stranger or naked or sick or in prison, and did not minister to You?" Then He will answer them, saying, "Truly, I say to you, as you did not do it to one of the least of these, you did not do it to Me." And these will go away into eternal punishment, but the righteous into eternal life." {Matthew 25:31-41}

Why do we not go out and do, why do we not see all the pain of the world and seek to heal and soothe souls in the name of Jesus?  "My brothers, this should not be so."

Thudding Heart

In the silence I hear the clock tick. In the stillness I can feel my heart thud within my chest. In the growing darkness faintly I can see my chest pulsating to match my heart. I feel almost too tired to move. It's this time of year again when there is so much to do that I feel as if I should collapse under the weight of it all, and all I wish to do is simply rest. But I cannot, for one pause may undo all the hours of sweat and work, pain and sleeplessness. My eyes are tired tonight. Not as if they are soon called to sleep, but tired like a man awake with insomnia, a man whose mind can never let him rest. My mind tries to tell me again and again all the ways I am not good enough. It tries to parade my faults and imperfections in front me, over and over again, like the repeating of a nightmare. So many struggles, so many fears, and they always seem to surge back like the waves of an upset sea. Some moments it's all I can do to keep treading water, it's all I can do to gasp for one more breath. Though, in the end, no matter what struggles I must face day to day-nightmares, past or present-no matter what storms my mind and life may be hurling, my soul, the deepest, truest part of me is lodged safely in the palm of my Redeemer's hand. I shall never be plucked out, I shall never be put to shame.

A Still Form in the Street

Too weak to lift my eyes, too tired to lift my head. Lying on the ground, the rain soothing tired limbs. My cheek resting against the moist earth, the mud splashing up, but washing down my face. I close my eyes and do not wish to open them tonight. The cold begins to soak into my bones, and somehow I can no longer feel my toes. My parched lips part and gasp for deeper air, and my swollen lids crack open but see nothing but darkness there. I am lying in the middle of a lonely street, mud in my hair, tears on my cheeks. Too tired to move, my body so weak. There is no one to help, no help will come. So I'll lay in the cold street, till morning light comes; but when the people shall see me, I shall be already gone.

It's A Beginning

Today I'm reading in: ℋEBREWS 1
The introduction to the book of Hebrews states it was written to encourage Christians in time of trial; and it goes on to say that it does so by focusing on the supremacy and sufficiency of Jesus Christ. Isn't it so true, even though we fail to see it, that when we focus on Jesus, and focus on the good things that He gives us, they encourage us and make us joyful?
1:1-2 "In many times and many ways" God spoke to the peoples-through the prophets. Now, we have the Son who speaks to us-we have the gift of the Holy Spirit to lead us wherever we should go.
1:8-9 Jesus rules with a scepter of uprighteousness; He hates the evil and loves the good, therefore "God, your God, has anointed you with the oil of gladness beyond your companions."
1:12b: "But You are the same, and your years will have no end." ♡
What to remember today:
① When we are in the midst of trials, focus on the good-the fullness and completeness of Him and the gifts we have been given.
② Always be talking to and listening to Jesus; do not grieve or quench the Spirit by refusing to listen.
③ Love uprightness; is gives men joy, gladness, and peace.
☂ for now

If Only...

It seems lately as if I can't scrub those two little words out of my mind and heart. They birth such an ache and a dreadful emptiness inside my soul. It teaches me to be unthankful, full of self, and bitter about the cards I have been played. In my mind I say, "If only I had a cabin in the woods..." all the way to "If only I hadn't done..."
There is an empty echo inside me when I catch myself saying those words, as if somehow feelings of guilt or remorse, greed or desires could fill me. I've tried to fill myself with things before, but I have failed miserably to create happiness.
It always amazes me that we human beings try to fill that ache in our hearts with things, or with people, but we overlook the realization that no matter what we try, when it's over we're still searching.
Searching.
Empty.
Lonely.
Numb.
Tired.
Deeper than the surface feelings, it's that emptiness you feel, and are slightly aware of no matter where you go and what you do. Even in the busiest day it hangs like a cobweb in the back if your mind. I'm quite familiar with the feeling. I fight it nearly every day.
I don't have to sit here sad about what I don't have. And I don't have to sit here bitter about what has happened to me throughout my life.
I don't have to be chained.
It has been said that when you are focused on the past you feel guilty, and when you focus on the future you feel fear and apprehension. But then there is the present. In the present we find peace.
Peace is such an interesting word; but despite the word, the meaning and implications are astounding. It always puzzled me how people would talk about being in the hardest part of their lives, and then they continue on to say that in the midst of it they have peace. Peace. Is that was peace means? Is it putting aside the fears and guilt and living today to the fullest?
When you look over your shoulder at the past it points its finger and scoffs at you, reminding you of all the times you've failed; and then there is the future. He is running away, looking over his shoulder, dreaming a lion is chasing him. Why do we make life so hard for ourselves? Why do we wish to live in the land of "if only...?"
I ask why, and then I go my way, and not five seconds later it returns like a pestering gnat. "But what if, if only...." And the weakness inside me trembles.

I Never Knew

I never dreamt I could hurt this much; to have this much stripped away. I never knew, I never knew.

I think of the melody, the words--"When you don't understand, and you can't see His hand, trust His heart." It keeps repeating inside my mind, over and over. I have a feeling, a deep dread that it is the only thing keeping me from falling over and melting into a puddle on the ground.

And I need to cry, but my eyes are so dry. I need to fall down in the rain, but the sun is shining bright. All I feel is so entirely numb. So numb I hardly feel alive.

Oh Jesus, oh dear God, I can't see Your hand. Why does it have to be so hard, why does the load have to be so excruciatingly heavy? My eyes so painfully dry?

A Weakened, Bleeding Heart

Some nights are so calm I almost wish for a thunderstorm to break out; for the thunder to rock the world and the lightning to strike every man deserving. I wish for the pounding rain to stream down my face, soak through my clothes, and wash this ache away. Oh the ache. I don't know how to describe it other than the throbbing of a toothache, or the tight squeezing of a weakened heart. I'm out of words, I feel so broken, so lost. 

I'm fighting tonight between what I know and what I feel. I know that I am not lost; I know that I am saved; I know that no matter how dark the night, the dawn will always come, but I feel so empty. So entirely lonely. Not for people, not for things. I feel lonely for God. I am feeling God-hungry tonight. When I feel like this, so empty, like I wish the ground's arms would reach up and pull me under, my little broken heart cries, and it cries, and it cries. And when the tears are all gone and I'm still lying here broken on the floor, He is always there, still there, to pick me up. For like that poem says, when there was only one set of footprints, He was carrying me. 

I need to rest in my Jesus's arms tonight.

He knows my pain; He knows my past; and He still holds my hand.

A Bird and A Clock

It's the ticking of clock
That echoes through the house
And it's the singing of the birds
That echoes through the night.

Hand in hand they sound together
But one fades away and the other
Stays and stays.

How transient the bird seems, for it
Flits to and fro, sometimes coming back
  And sometimes never here;
And yet the steady clock ticks on and on,
Steady, consistent, no variation or shadow of change.

The clock echoes through an empty house,
Leaving a mark cold and quite unfeeling,
But the bird, oh the bird-
It flits into the sunset, lights on wires
And sings its song over again for me.

Day after day it lives,
Flying where it has never been before,
And God takes note of a sparrow,
While a clock is but a tool that does not live.

So what's my point, you ask?
Well, I was just thinking, it's
So much better to live alive,
Actually sing and fly and breathe,
Than be a stiff echo that never changes,
Never feels, never hears, never sees.

So what, may I ask, are you?
I choose to be a bird.
I choose to live alive, and free.
I choose to sing.

Freedom for the Oppressed

I found a verse today in the Psalms. Chapter 9, actually, for the 9th of April. Psalms 9:9-10, it says: "The LORD is a stronghold for the oppressed, a stronghold in times of trouble. And those who know Your name put their trust in You, for You, O LORD, have not forsaken those who seek You."

How often do we forget that God is always there for us; we find ourselves believing that He is too far to hear or help when we are distressed, in trouble; sad, or lonely. He is my refuge, my Protector, my Provider, my Emmanuel, my Jehovah Jireh, my Savior, my Redeemer, my truest and closest Friend. The One I can always count on, always lean on, always trust. Why do I not go to Him then, when He is the ultimate source of all my help? He says He is a "stronghold for the oppressed," and He is a refuge in times of trouble, an ever-present companion and shelter in every storm of life. It has been said that God will either calm you or calm your storm, and somehow I believe that God calms me more than be calms my storms. He wants me to grow and mature and become more and more dependent and surrendered to Him, and if we never had need of Him, it would never happen.

So once again, all things work together for good to those who love God and have been called according to His purposes.

Evening Noises

Mournfully and sweetly, so very low and gentle, the cooing of the mourning dove echoes through the early evening light. I watch the light sink low, I hear the faint notes of a wind chime as a silent breeze floats past and then slowly fades away. If I listen to those sweet, low notes I feel the tension fade away, as I listen to the soft noises and forget all the days. And then those old sweet memories, of days gone by so long ago, of a little girl with frizzy curls, soft brown eyes, and cooing doves. I remember that little frame sitting in the evening light, swinging on the swings, as high as she could go, to see the birds keep flying, to see the sun sink low. I remember the cool grass between her toes, and the smell of freshly-turned earth inside her nose. In those days there were daisies, and little golden flowers, there were cool breezes and crickets too. Oh the memories, those sweet days in which her young mind knew no pain. All was sunshine-filled days, every moment happiness to the child-mind. And now I keep reaching back, back into that almost unknown, I reach my fingers out to grasp, but like the sunshine, it slips through my fingers, too intangible to grasp.