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.