With All My Heart

Have you ever thought about how shallow life can be? We fill our days with so many little meaningless things in hopes that someday it will add up to something. We eat three meals a day (well some of us), drive to work, drive home, go to school, sleep, stare at our phones, edit pictures for Instagram, gossip with friends and family about other people's lives.. But what does all that really do? I slip so often into a cycle of getting up late, filling my days with inconsequential tasks, staying up into the wee hours of the morning, and repeating the process. And then I wonder why my spirit feels so dry and thirsty. I wonder why my heart is shrouded in a thick cloud of depression and why I can't seem to see anything good in life. I've heard and read so many times that the only sanity in a world of insanity is Christ--and my heart knows the truth of it. When I content myself to merely wade through the shallows of His love and my relationship with Him, the rest of me dries up and my soul aches as it begins to return to the dust from which He made me. I read so many articles about the church and Christians, not to mention society, rejecting absolute truth, the Biblical definition of marriage, supporting abortion and homosexual rights, and my heart breaks. My heart breaks because in every single case it is people trying to rediscover themselves and fill the void inside their hearts with things that never last and never truly satisfy. My heart aches almost to the point that I don't even care to live because life seems hopeless and all that is good lost. But He created me for a life of joy and fullness, to bring Him glory and spread His fame--how can I live that way if I am shrouded in eternal sadness?
I can't.
Not in my own strength.
He tells me that I cannot be comfortable in the world and that I will be hated because I proclaim His name--He tells me that I am an alien, and I know it to be true. So why then do I deny my destiny, my homeland, my first Love? Why do I content myself with living a shallow life, wading in the warm waters near the sandy shores? Do I not want to get my hair wet, have to wear myself out struggling to swim against the waves? Or is it simply because living in the shallows is much easier than swimming out to sea? My beloved, you and I will never be satisfied if we are not willing to give our all. He whispers to my heart You will seek Me and find Me, when you seek Me with all your heart. I'm not sure I've ever done anything in my entire life with all my heart. I'm not even sure I know what that means.
But I crave Him and I long for Him like I could never long for another. I've tasted, but I have not drunk deeply enough of Him, and my heart shall never be satisfied. If I ever learn to do anything with all my heart, it shall be to seek His face, for He is my heart's ambition--my soul's destination.
And He has done so much.
Oh so much-- for me.

Giving Thanks

I've spent far too long thinking about myself--my dreams, my whims, my wishes, my brokenness, my struggles.. Everything about me and what is going on in my heart and life. It's a paradox, really, if you think about it long enough. I try to figure myself out and work through all my struggles by both writing and thinking, but the fullest healing comes when I forget about myself and think instead of other people and how I can bless their lives. My contentment blooms when my heart is thankful--not just to and for those who love and care for me, but also when I learn to say thank you for the hard things, because those things are what mold me into becoming truly beautiful.
Life and living is such a mystery and enigma to me. Whenever I think that I've got something all worked out inside my mind my perspective is shattered and my dreams either broken or enlarged. There is a passage in the Bible, I can't think of where it is at the moment, that likens people to lumps of clay being worked by the potter's hands. God is the potter, and I am the clay.
God can't make me into a beautiful vessel unless I am soft to His touch and His will, and when I become hard, sometimes He has to break me. And then I fall into those lowest ebbs of tide and into the deepest darkest valleys and I have to choke out His name. I choke out His name and He brings me light. God, in His infinite wisdom, has given each and every one of us a free will to choose to either be soft to His touch and love, or to turn away in defiance and self-love. And for me, Thanksgiving is a call to return to His arms and His love in reverent thankfulness, remembering not only what He has done for us on the cross, but also what He continues to do each and every moment of our lives. Though my sin and selfishness blinds me to His grace and all His gifts, He has made a way for me to be renewed and made whole again.
For His mercies are new every morning.
And though my stubborn and foolish heart may turn its back on His face day after day, His arms never stop reaching out to me. For though I am faithless, He is faithful, for He cannot deny Himself.

I need to take more time to be thankful.

Becoming New

I'm a bad-weather writer.
It seems as if words will only spill from my heart when I feel some pain, or sadness, or loneliness. Makes for a depressing read, I know. It's hard to look happy when you're always sad. Something I've learned over my few years is that the more I do for myself the sadder I become, just like the longer I think about the things that I don't have, the more what I do have becomes ugly to my heart. Have you ever thought that, or is it just me?
I'm battling a strange emotion tonight--that of loss and disappointment so deep that I hardly know what to do with myself. I've had this feeling a few times before, but that doesn't make it any easier. There's a reason some of the most beautiful poetry written is about loss and loneliness--it just melds so easily in with the crashing of waves and dark nights, with empty beds and candlelight. Last year this time I was battling with losing my childhood home and the birthplace of everything good in me. Last spring marked a year since my "first love," in reality very foolish, buried a chunk of my heart in the warming earth, and this year, well, that's a story for another time.
I just can't talk about it now.
I go between phases of writing bad poetry that would make a proper English teacher cringe, to vomiting out raw emotions through my fingertips. And through it all I'm not quite sure I really know how to live with myself anymore. I'm not sure I've ever really dealt with any of my pain or my broken dreams... It's more like I've folded them all neatly and tucked them away in a box in the top of my closet, labeled warning: open at your own risk. So they stay there, and I try to forget them, but they never really ever go away. I can't burn them up, I can't send them away, and I can't ever completely forget them. I think the part that bothers me the most is that no one can have me without having all my boxes come along too.
I wish life wasn't this way. But I probably wouldn't be the person I am today without all those boxes hidden away. I wouldn't have the wisdom that comes with making mistakes, and I wouldn't have the marks that set my life apart from yours. Just because my world is different than yours doesn't mean that you are better than me, or I better than you. We were all born for a different purpose, and tonight I'm trying to find comfort in the fact that maybe I couldn't fulfill my purpose without all these scars that shape my heart and mold my path. Maybe, just maybe, it's just simply the process burning away the layers of dross to reveal that beautiful, pure gold that every man wishes he had--becoming something new and utterly precious with every heartache and every pang.

Ensnaring Apathy

I never in all my life thought that I'd feel this alone--this lonely. It's like I have no purpose, no plans, no future, no prospects. I suppose if I'm honest these are just feelings talking and in reality they're rubbish, but still, they're here, inside my heart. I can't even begin to describe the way it eats at my heart and mind until I realize that my hands are trembling and my stomach is sick even while my face is stoic and I try to keep myself from crying. Some people say it's just the 20s stage and that everyone goes through it, but instead of bringing me comfort that knowledge just makes me feel more and more like I'm drowning--alone. And not just drowning, but drowning in water that is so cold that it has paralyzed me to the point that I can no longer struggle, but just let it come.
Without hope.
I wish I didn't have these feelings, these emotions.
I wish that I could wake up with a still heart instead of feeling like I'm missing something somewhere--someone. In this house alone so many days I rush around doing things that seem so important to my tired mind all the while knowing deep inside that nothing I do really makes any difference at all.
Instead of enjoying a cup of coffee in the cool fall air I find myself chugging a cup of coffee gone cold and I stay inside the house tinkering with things that don't matter, or searching for diy projects on Pinterest that I know deep down I really have no intention of doing. I spend too much time curling my hair or planning my outfit when I know that I'm not going to leave the house. I look at my face in the mirror and find myself despairing over a little acne or a few scars. I look at an unread book that is begging to be read but instead I flit around the house doing nothing that nourishes my soul.
What is this strange apathy that has crept into my heart and into the deepest recesses of my mind? My ability to retain knowledge or the memory of what happened last week is slipping away, and I feel it. I'm not being stretched. I'm not learning. I'm not writing. I'm not working. I'm not reading.
All I am is fading.
It's no wonder I feel so empty.
I feel so tired, and yet--I have no energy or ambition to do anything.
Even as I write these words my eyes are struggling to keep themselves open and my once-hot cup of Earl Grey tea is poised lukewarm in my hand.
What can I do to break this cycle? There must be a way--there must.

Wish No More for Forgetfulness

I think I've forgotten what it is to live.
Today I put away my laptop, phone, and iPod and I sat outside in the cool breeze. It's not often anymore that I let that silence wash over me. Somehow it just drags up all my insecurities, all my doubts, and all the memories I wish so deeply to forget. But I think that maybe I've forgotten too much. I've read countless times that you should forget the pain but remember the lesson. How is it that I can never seem to separate the two? Actions are never as simple as words make them out to be, but somehow, in my trying so hard to forget, I have also forgotten the beautiful, and the memories that once gave me strength and hope have slipped away into the darkness of a blank mind. And that is where I find myself now--with a mind unwilling to trust and a heart unwilling to let myself love.

Enchantment Somehow Never Lasts

The wind is so gently gusting through my window, carrying in it's arms the scent of rain. I hear through the darkness the symphony of leaves as they are whipped by the promise of a storm--to and fro--and it feels just like my heart. Whipped. Tattered. In darkness. Torn. Who is this sad person that I've become, always craving, always longing, and never completely satisfied? It does not matter who I am with or what I am doing-- I'm lonely. But I wonder, does anyone ever feel completely not alone?
I crave this solitude like I crave the air that I breathe, but at the same time it sickens me to my core because I want to know that someone, somewhere truly cares. But maybe the only one who truly cares I've grown into the habit of ignoring simply because I'd rather live with the person I think I am, than who I truly am.
The wind has stopped now, and that enchanting scent of rain is fading away, slowly. I think of all that I think I am, all that I've done, all that I've lived and learned, whether good or bad. I think of the crickets chirping outside my window, as they call for a mate to carry on the line of crickets in the neighborhood. Then, when the winter season comes, they die, decompose, and return to the dust from which they came, just like I shall one day. Dust to dust, ashes to ashes, man will return from whence he came... and what will I have accomplished in my few and troublesome days? More pain, more sin, more heartache and disease? What will I have brought to the world, or more importantly, to God?
I feel so horridly useless, alone, and, quiet honestly, tarnished and ruined. You can scrub the oxidation off silver, and you can cut a raw stone into a priceless gem, but what can you do with a piece of broken pottery except scrape your open wounds like Job did. Tonight my heart's cry is that of Paul, for he said I do the things I do not wish to do, and the things I want to do I do not do. Why does it always have to be this way? I'm so tired of failing, of not quite living up to who I want--and who I should be.
I'm just so tired. Tired of trying.

Raw

I wish that I could just go back to who I was before.
I hate the feeling of being watched--of having others see me. I just want to slink away, hide in a corner, and be angry--all the time.

No One Knocking

Am I really back to a valley already? I shouldn't be surprised at this--I do know better, I really do. Loneliness. That ever-present feeling of wishing to let someone into the room of your heart, and yet there is no one there knocking at the door wanting to enter. I don't know what to do. I can't force anyone to care like that, but yet I crave to show someone a glimpse of my crumbled, crying form. But would an action born of that be merely pity? So after weighing my options I shall do what I always do: write, pray, and wait. Some people eat their feelings in an attempt to feel better, but I just write mine. I spill them out like ugly blots of ink upon a white sheet of paper, and then I wait. Other moments I just simply shove this loneliness to the back of my mind and go about my business like I never had the feeling.
Is it such a crime to want?

Take a Deep Breath

I don't know what it is about coming home, but I feel like I morph into an entirely different person every time the pressure in my head adjusts from the higher elevation of the mountains to down here in the city where the smog is thick and the heat makes the pavement boil. Suddenly the patience that I strive so hard to let control me vanishes, and all my determination and ambition fades away like the end of a flower's life. Maybe it's just that it's hard to transition from a fast-paced, high-expectation situation to one that doesn't have a schedule, and you don't have responsibility or activity except what you make. I don't like this person that I become. I've never thought of myself as someone who works better under stress, but maybe that's who I am after all. I think of those days when I would cram in the endings of projects and write papers in the dead of night as I struggled to finish school, and the nights when I fall asleep as one who has the responsibility of 4-10 little ones. Those are the days that I look back on with fondness--those are the days that I actually remember, while all the others just simply fade away as if they never were really there at all.
I feel so confused and alone inside. Will there ever be a time that I feel like I belong somewhere? Or is that just a curse I have to live with? It seems so foreign to me now, the thought that I'll ever belong with someone or doing something special with my life. I'm just stuck here doing what I've always done, restless in heart, mind, and body but too scared to move on...or to move at all. My parched heart croaks the word why again and again and some moments it's all I can do to not scream at the world and dig a hole to bury myself in. Some days these feelings rush upon me as depression, other times as resentment, others as anger, but what really is it? Insecurity? Lack of purpose? Loneliness? I don't understand, I really don't. But whatever this is, it makes me upset inside, and it drives me toward being a person that I don't want to be--a person that I've been before--a person that scares me.
"Hold My hand, and walk joyously with Me through this day... I am your Guide, as well as your constant companion. I know every step of the journey ahead of you... You don't have to choose between staying close to Me and staying on course. Since I am the Way, staying close to Me is staying on the course."
As I sat in my room this morning, I read those words, and a cool breeze washed over me. They may not be out of the Book itself, but the words portray the Heart of the One I call my Savior. I've tried to be patient where I am, and I've tried to be quote-on-quote good, but I fail every time because such things aren't part of my natural self. I can't do it in my own strength because my own strength is frail. When I was little I thought that there were some things that I would just never have a problem with because it wasn't me, but now that I'm older I realize that we all face the same things, and no one is exempt, even me. But it still hurts, and I still can't tough it out on my own, no matter how hard I try. But is that my problem? Is that the root of my insecurity, my not-belonging-ness, my failures? Have I been fooling myself into believing that I trust Him fully, when I really don't?
Jesus, help me understand.

At the Well of Beer-lahai-roi

Once upon a time there was a girl who grew up loving the mountains and the fresh air. She made mud "cakes" with her little brother and was fascinated by baby frogs and snakes. This little girl poured over her King James version of the Bible and never went a night without reading that precious book. But childhood days and rumpled braids never seem to last. As the days flew by, myriads of things changed in that life--and heart. And now here I sit, now only 27 days from 20 years old, and I wonder what happened to that little girl. I wish that somehow I could bring her back.

But time doesn't work that way.

Today I struggle. Every moment I struggle, whether it be to live the faith I claim, or to flee the wrong that my baser nature craves. No one will ever be able to convince me that the battle between wrong and right does not exist--I've been cut too deeply to believe that the knife isn't real. But despite all my struggle and all my pain, the One who demands all of my heart and all my devotion walks with me through each day. It is so easy to focus on a part of who God is, say for example, His justice, and forget that He is also a God of love. This God that demands my all made the tiny blooms of the plant that was waiting inside it's seed, waiting for me to give it water to grow. He made that beauty--a flower so small that we deemed it appropriate to name it a forget-me-not. And yet God sees even its tiniest bloom.

It reminds me of the story of Hagar in Genesis chapter 16. Hagar was a slave of Sarai, the wife of Abram (later called Abraham, who was the father of the nation of Israel). Now Sarai and Abram could not have any children, and they had been given a promise by God that a great nation would come from them. But they were old, and though they had believed God once, His words became less real to them every passing day. In those days, it was acceptable in the people's eyes to have children by their servants, so, Sarai gave Abram her slave Hagar to have a child by.

I can't even imagine what that would have been like. Here Hagar is, serving her mistress, living comfortably in her master's house, and then she is told she will be used to give Abram children. If I had been her I would have protested vehemently, but, as the story goes, Hagar became pregnant. When she realized that she was pregnant, she "looked in contempt" on her mistress Sarai, and Sarai was angered. I don't know about you, but when I am angry I lash out, and that is exactly what Sarai did. Then Sarai dealt harshly with her, and she fled from her. And the angel of the Lord found her by a spring of water in the wilderness, the spring on the way to Shur. I wonder if at this point Hagar is just wishing that she could die. Here she is, first a servant taken from her homeland of Egypt, then given to her master, now pregnant, oppressed enough to run away, and, as a cherry to top the cake, what every runaway servant dreads--she's found.

But the angel of the Lord tells her to go back to her mistress and to submit to her. He also tells Hagar that she will indeed have a son, and that his name should be Ishmael. From him would come offspring without number, just as the Lord had promised to Abram, and even though Abram and Sarai had felt the need to take God's work into their own hands, God would be faithful to His promise. You shall call his name Ishmael, because the Lord has listened to your affliction... So she called the name of the Lord who spoke to her, "You are a God of seeing," for she said, "Truly here I have seen him who looks after me." Therefore the well was called Beer-lahai-roi; it lies between Kadesh and Bered. And Hagar bore Abram a son, and Abram called the name of his son, whom Hagar bore, Ishmael. Abram was eighty-six years old when Hagar bore Ishmael to Abram.

God is truly a God of seeing. If I was a seminary student or a pastor I might delve a little more into depth about the implications of this story and all the things we can learn from it, but my little mind would just like to think on how my God is a God of seeing.

He sees all my pain and all the injustices of my life. He notices the tiny flowers that bloom and every hair that falls from my head. You have kept count of my tossings; put my tears in Your bottle. Are they not in Your book? (Psalm 56:8) The Lord saw all of Hagar's secret pains, all of her problems, and her mistakes, but yet He had a plan to bring nations from her womb. God must have a plan for my pain as well--a plan for my moment by moment struggles. I can take comfort in the fact that no matter what happens, He sees--even if I am in the wilderness, alone and hiding at a well named Beer-lahai-roi.

I'd Rather be a Rock than a Wave

It's the first night I've been home in seven weeks, and I have a craving for coffee and pretzels. I've missed this house and my own bed, but at the same time I haven't. Isn't it strange how you can miss something but yet at the same time be relieved that it isn't there anymore? I'm not even sure I understand how that works.
Camp always has a way of changing me, whether it be my attitude, or my heart, or just simply my outlook on life. It's that spiritual "mountain" that lasts just enough to make you forget what a valley feels like. And I come home and think, "This time it will be different..." But I know deep inside that I'll see those valleys again. It took me a long time this summer to really latch onto the swing of hard work and making genuine time for God. More often than not I find myself depending upon what I feel about God, and letting that determine my relationship with Him rather than what I know to be true. One of my favorite quotes is from a beautiful lady named Elisabeth Elliot: Don't dig up in doubt what you planted in faith. I have to ask myself, is what I believe based upon what I feel, or the Word of God? If I wait to pray because I do not feel the Spirit moving, will I ever pray, or will I ever feel the presence of God? If I wait to study the life-giving words until I feel inspired will I ever open the Book at all? I know from past experience that I won't. I'll just simply let it be, and then I'll slip away until one day I have a reality check and realize that I've been groping around in darkness and not moving anywhere. If I never try, I'll never be able to succeed. It's easier to steer something that is moving forward rather than something that is standing still. If I love God, I'll make time for Him, but unless I make time for Him, how can I learn to love Him? Tonight I want to make a commitment to strengthen my determination to seek His face even in the times that I cannot see His hand.

The Tired Behind My Eyes

How often I apologize for my words, and yet, at times, they are the only things that calm my own heart.  I feel a bitter churning in my stomach tonight. My head wants to tell me that it is because of the large glass of tangy homemade lemonade that I drank, but my heart knows better. But then again, who can trust their own heart to tell them the honest truth? I know I can't. I find myself trusting my heart time and time again, only to have it lead me down the wrong path, and how it makes me ache. My eyes feel tight and hot and dry, my hands swollen, and veins bulged. My back aches and I long for sleep and yet it evades me. Once again my mere feelings are poured out upon white sheets of paper and spelled out for hearts to see. I lie here in my bed and I feel so used. By friends who I thought were real, by the very people who are supposed to protect me, and even by my self. It's moments like these that I find living so excruciatingly hard, and I hate myself for it. I hate this weakness of a caring heart; I hate that the very things that give me life only kill me in the end.

But what truly matters?

In the end, all you'll have is God. I know that deep inside those words beat true, and yet my heart tries to resist the thought and the strange emotion that stirs inside my chest when I think of them. I want to cling to this earthy life and all that it offers, the many things that grace my arms and walls, all my dreams that consist of only these familiar rocks and dirt--and yet I know deep down that none of these will last when I close my eyes in eternal sleep. I'll wake to see my knees upon the floor of heaven, standing before the One Who was the orchestrator of all my life, and Who I more often than not pretended wasn't there. Will I be able to lift my chin, and my eyes to that face that no man can see and live? Or will I only be able to tremble and praise my God for granting me life when all I have ever deserved is death? The soft melody beating inside my heart tells me that I was made for God, and yet when following God tells me that what I want to do I shouldn't, I turn my head away like I'm not denying the deepest part of myself when I walk away from Him. My soul and heart and mind and dreams were all crafted by the One who sits upon that throne, and when I deny Him, am I not denying myself also? Denying all that I truly am, denying all that I want and strive to be? I can never achieve the best of myself when I deny myself the sweetest romance any human being can ever experience. And why? Because I do not want to condition my soul and tell myself no to things that, deep down, I know will only hurt me in the end? Why do I seek to major in my own destruction?
I try to make it so much more than simply coming to His throne. I try to make it a list of do's and don'ts when it was never meant to be that way. My God desires my heart, my allegiance--He desires to be my truest friend, and to teach me how to truly live, and not just this life, but the next. The next being the one what truly matters. How often I forget and cleave to that which will only dissolve in my arms. How can those things be so precious that I gain the whole word and yet lose the deepest, most inward part of myself--my very soul? My eyes are trained upon the ground I walk on, when instead I need to reach out and take the hand of the One who already knows the path and let His feet guide me. How often I leave the One that loves me more than all the other souls of the world put together. How often I forget that all I truly have is God.

Pressed Flowers

I don't understand this sickening sadness that descends upon my heart so often anymore. I know life can't be as bad as it seems, but still here I am believing that it is not worth living. I know I'm not the only one who has had pain and spoiled dreams, and yet, I feel all alone in my sadness, and no one but myself can bear those burdensome memories. Only God knows what churns deep inside my heart, and though I wish to spill all my emotions, I know that vulnerability has a habit of breeding fear and dependence. And I do not want either. How is it that in one breath I can be okay and in the next I feel as if a knife was plunged between my ribs. I wish to wake up and realize that I have something amazing to live for. I had something that made my eyes sparkle once, but now I hardly believe that they ever did--or that they ever can again.
I hold it all inside and I let no one see. Words are so unbelievable to so many people that I can spill my heart with no one ever taking me seriously. It's a protection--and yet it hurts, for though they are but words scrawled upon a sheet of paper, they last forever. Thoughts, never written, only last as long as the memory of the thinker. Words, never taken down, only last as long as the hearers remember. Of course, my simple written words are just as easily destroyed, but yet, to me, they seem more tangible. They are like driving a stake into the ground and saying these are my emotions preserved like pressed flowers, and somehow it clears away the fog and makes me see clearly again. For my lips will never speak that which my fingertips pour out. Though my lips pour out laughter, my fingers scrawl pain; I am neither one, nor the other, but a strange undrinkable mixture of both. And my soul feels like nothing more than a tune of the violin passionately but mournfully played.

Rest of the Weary

Come my darling, come
 Into my arms tonight.
Rest your wearied head
 Upon this breast of mine,
Hardened by this great work
 Of living.

Let the troubles of the day
 Melt like snow on clay
Let me wrap you in my arms
 And whisper that everything
Will be all right.

I'll wipe those lonely tears
 From the hollow of your eyes
And I'll explain away your fears
 In this the middle of the night.

Come my darling, come
 Let me hold you in your sweetest slumbler
In your nightmares
 In the times you shake and tremble.

I will never let you go
 Even when all others seem to
Forget your name
 In the bustle of the day.

When all others are distracted by
 Vain, earthy things--themselves,
You are forever on my mind
 To me you are always known.

If only you could feel my arms
 Around your waist
My finger on your cheek,
 See the love in my eyes.

Come my darling, come.

•••

This weariness, this slumber
 Will always hold me in his arms.
He asks for nothing,
 Yet gives me the rest I need.

Some nights he spins me tales
 So my tired mind can believe again
In fantasies and fairy tales.

His arms are ever willing to hold
 Even when I long to resist him
For the novelties of living.

But I will ever fall into those arms of sleep
 To rest, to dream, to open my eyes again.

Leaving

I have the intense desire
In this aching heart of mine
To let the aches I so greatly feel
Harden me into a person irredeemable
And unreachable
Untraceable

I look around at so many faces
And my soul hardens in embitterment
Why does bitterness seem to fill
When all it truly does is empty
These faces
Hold so many secrets
So many secret lusts
Leering eyes
Prideful looks

And yet I know that I look the same as they
I don't know who I am
Or what I live for anymore
I hear voices spurring ones on to walk in integrity
And to choose the right simply because it is right
To walk in the hands of God

And yet I look from a distance
And I no longer partake in that walk
Words come from my lips
But not from my heart
And all I feel is insincerity
And a coldness that seeps into my veins and freezes my heart

I see eyes giddy with love
Overflowing with happiness
And deep in my heart I know I'll never trust enough to love
Craving and shunning
Both will always possess my soul
And I hate the feeling of wanting
And vulnerability
I crave intimacy
But I hate
I hate
The feeling that I'm being used

I want to shut everyone and everything out
  And not need anyone but myself.

Grace, Grace--God's Grace

It hurts me so much when I think of where I've been, and though I know that I have been forgiven, the pain of the past stabs me with a pang that is all too real. So much respect is lost, so much maturity, so much that you--I--didn't even know was there. It's so true that you don't really know what you have till it's gone. And it hurts me tonight to think of all those things I've lost. The love for tangible things will wear away over time, but what happens when you lose bits of your soul? How possibly can you get those back? Some never come back I suppose. They're like ashes scattered on the wind, or a grain of sand tossed to and fro by the billows of the ocean waves. Oh, this stabbing in my chest is too real--this pain pounding behind my eyes makes me want to die, and the shame nearly chokes me.
Tonight the combination of pain and the realization that sometimes it's necessary to say goodbye haunts me. I wish I could close my eyes and make everything go away, or at least make it right. But in this world mistakes will be made, and problems will be raised. Consequences, whether good or bad, come with every action, and no matter how it hurts, it can't be wished away. Oh how I should know that by now. And yet my resolve melts like snow in August. So many times I try to do it all on my own. The advice  follow your heart turns out to be the worst decision I could have ever made--probably yours too if you're honest, for that wickedness that spreads its drops of poison in your veins causes fields to sprout into weeds. How little I believed those words when they said the heart is deceitful and desperately wicked, who can know it. But today I know the truth. I also know that without the cleansing blood of Christ I would still stand condemned and filthy before the throne of Holy God. Some days, like tonight, that feeling of utter worthlessness washes over me and it's all I can do not to drown in this grief, and I have to force myself to dwell on the grace and mercy of God--that He has not given me what I deserve, but instead has given me that which I could never hope for.

Moments in the Sunshine

I'm struggling today. It seems as if I have a love-hate relationship with the springtime, because, on one hand, this newness makes me feel alive again, like the winter has deadened my senses, and when the sun hits my face, suddenly everything I live for becomes important, rather than shallow. On the other hand, it makes me feel so old and worn, like the gnarled figures of fairy tales--my face creased and blotched like it doesn't belong to me; my heart weak inside my chest and my body unrecognizable because I gaze too long at what I wish to be. But worst of all is my soul; that part that hovers behind my brown-green eyes--those eyes that betray my emotion to the world that flows around me. I feel as if my soul is stagnated, and I can't rise from this spot until all the pains I hold inside are dealt with. My too-little courage, my half-hearted commitment, my half-dreamed dreams, my non-existent ambition... These things that I label myself when I tell myself you can't. You just weren't made for it. It's not for you. You've failed so many times before. You know you're not good enough. The list could go on and on...and somehow tonight sitting in this sunlight I realize that the person holding me back is me; I am my biggest impossibility. I am my own worst enemy. It is me. But it's only because I tell myself that I can't--that I won't.

I think that it's only when we decide to let God tell us who we are that we really know the truth about ourselves. Some days it's all I can do to walk around and look people in the eyes, because the little devil on my shoulder keeps filling my head and heart with those lies. I am not worthless, but I am redeemed. My God died to set me free, and who am I to tell myself that that isn't true. How often do I let myself "be God" instead of listening to His still, small voice telling me who I am and where I need to be.
I think these thoughts started to churn when I realized again today that people don't mean half of what they say. And that realization hurts because how can you take a compliment or an encouraging word to heart when you're always believing that someone doesn't exactly mean what they say. How can you truly believe that you are loved when you're always telling yourself that well, maybe they didn't mean it that way... It's so tiring after awhile--trying to discern truth from error. Friends leave, betray loyalties, turn out to be someone completely different than you thought they were, use you, abuse you, lie to your face... And how can I go on believing that what you say is the truth? Goodness, I can't even believe what I tell myself, because I know that my heart is desperately wicked... So in the end, only God's words are completely true, and only what He knows about me is really what and who I am. And it's so hard to keep dwelling on His words, rather than my own.
I sit here on the concrete of the driveway, my fingers plunking out a melody on my keyboard, and I see my long, honey-brown curls in the reflection, see the grey jeans stretched across my knees and the sweatshirt hiding my arms. It's so hard to believe that there is more than what I see. It's so hard to believe that what my name testifies to be true is really true--beloved. Some days it's my biggest struggle to believe that. I suppose that by the end of the day I would rather be hidden and truly loved by only a few than to be seen by many and mocked for who I am and the struggles I face. I thank God that in Him I shall always find a friend.

Needles in the Wind

At the turn of my head I see through the window the bright green needles of the giant pine waving up and down in the breeze as dusk slowly seeps down between the curves of these mountains. My grandmama's little house is nestled across from the river and the highway up in these Idahoan mountains, and the chimes that hang off the porch out front sing merrily, charming and calming my sleepy little heart. I'm craving a walk between those tall pines tonight, but the chill of the coming night drives me inside to snuggle underneath my cozy afghan, with a cup of steaming tea, my staple, in my hand. As I rest my head here, and close my eyes I think of my beating heart, and somehow I realize that I've begun not to expect anything anymore. I don't expect to love or be loved, and I don't expect the best. It stunts my courage and makes my heart shrink in shyness, my eyes drop to the floor, and only a little smile turns up the corners of my lips. But even though I no longer expect anything, deep inside is an all-too-human longing for everything. A longing for true love, unbroken by years, pain, and trials; a longing for beauty to grace the world I live in; a longing for a little hand; a longing for a place stamped and sealed as truly my own. Somehow there is a strange release--a strange freedom in letting go of all my ambitions, and letting my dreams slip away so easily into the world of fiction--the place where stories are spun and woven like the fibers of fine tapestry. In letting go suddenly it seems as if I've gained everything; I have freedom to enjoy the moment I'm breathing in. Let the cool of the night air shock my lungs and bring goosebumps to the surface of my skin; suddenly every sound and movement jumps out and alerts all my senses. The rustle of the dry grass and the chirps and coos of many birds stir my heart, and though the sounds pierce my heart, the overwhelming quietness is enough to make me lie down in the tall grass and watch the clouds slowly move across the sapphire sky. This quietness, these woods, are a part of my soul; they make me who I am, and without them, part of me would die. But it's not just the woods, for even in the midst of bustling populations there are places in which the stillness sings. It may be harder to hear, but it only takes a patient and listening ear. A still heart--quiet. It's so hard to take my own advice, though. I busy myself with picture-taking, and speaking; with too-much tea-drinking, and a heart that doesn't want to stop dreaming and worrying and thinking too many thoughts. So tonight I'll curl up in my bed, in this my grandmama's house, try not to shake the thin paneling of the walls as I turn in my sleep; I'll listen to the moan the trucks make on the highway, and let it rock me into the sweetest slumber. May the morning not come quickly, for I do not have a desire to leave this place. May the night pass oh, sweetly, and my dreams soothe instead of tear me. May the morning bloom fair over these hills and mountains that are ingrained into my soul, and let the God of my life hold me in His hand--ever leading, ever guiding, no matter where this little girl may wander.

Like a Fragrance Gone Sour

Oh how my heart hurts tonight; it's being prodded with a pain that all too familiar to my mind. It seeps through my veins and creates an all too real prick inside my chest that pulses with every other heartbeat. My stomach aches with worked-for pain and makes me wish to just curl up and sleep my life away. Even in the darkness of evening I'll squint my eyes tonight; I so long to forget the world, forget the pain, forget the mistakes...forget the vulnerability. I stand here shamed for sharing my heart--for revealing those tender parts of my soul, the essence of who I am. Even if that essence isn't sweet, but rather bitter and tainted, like a fragrance gone sour; like an apple fallen from the tree and left to rot. Tingling in the back of my mind is the thought that I shouldn't let these dark, saddened thoughts pervade my life and invade my heart, but yet like a drug I've written of before, this sadness and subtle pricking dulls me into a romantic melancholy that novels are made of. In the distance I hear a chime rocking easily with the breeze, and it makes me want to wander down those darkened streets outside my window; get lost somewhere I've never been--without a worry, without a care. But deep inside I know that the cares that clog my brain tonight won't disappear the moment I'm sitting next to a giant tree in the middle of the woods instead of here on the hardwood floor. It all seems so unreal--these past three years. A whirlwind of change riddled with pain; foolish hearts, hasty words, things you can never take back. I suppose I had to wake up to the world somehow; it doesn't make itself kind to those who live in it. And yet, how much of it has all been my own consequences? There are so many i's in this simple paragraph--it reminds me that this sadness just focuses my eyes back in onto myself. It reminds me that the middle of sin is i--I. Me. Myself. I run in circles, my head spins; my dreams haunt me, my tired eyes mock me. My past rebukes me, my shame beats me. I sink into this puddle of water, my feet have no hold but mud. I sink, my head barely above water; I gasp--somehow I feel as if I'm going under.

Giggles Caught in Carpet

I want to lock up evenings like these in my memory for the times when I can't remember happiness. As per usual, us three girls, my mom, my sister, and I made dinner and watched a murder mystery movie together. Netflix kept buffering, but we falteringly made it through. Us girls curled up on the couch with our afghans, and my mom in her chair. We suggested various theories and were startled (or horrified) by shocking plot twists. In the end when it was all solved, the night air had grown chilly outside the windows, and our heartbeats started slowing down. She beat me on the word game, and I added to make her word doughboy. My restless legs made me squirm and move to the floor. It's hard but so comfortable. Giggles escaped from between my teeth, and we laughed at my silliness. It's hard to believe that six months from now my pretty sister will be married and moved. It seems like yesterday that we were little girls, and yet, like an old picture, it's faded and torn at the edges. I wanted to stay sprawled out on the floor, giggles reverberating through my head, but she turned the lights out, and if I didn't get up, I'd fall asleep. So I put my dishes away and went out to close in the chickens. Today the guys from Anvil came to set the posts for our new fence. With our backyard one with the neighbor's, and all the trees gone, it seems rather like that old backyard that I carry in my memories now. The huge pine, the big yard, the full garden...just memories now. The metal of the gate clanged like the old dog kennel and all the times I would let Doogie out, rub his floppy hound ears, smile at his exuberance to get out to go sleep in the yard. He's buried there now; I hope the new people won't inadvertently dig up his bones, poor puppy. All those memories from just a wide open space. I looked up to see the stars forming loose constellations in the sky above my head. A light cloud layer made them hazy, but still I watched. Such a pretty picture, those stars. Tiny points of light in such a dark world; such a dark night. I wonder if that's what I should be here tonight--a spark of light in a dark world. Such I should be every waking moment, and though it doesn't seem possible, even when I sleep. How can who I am, who God has made me into, affect the world for good unless I live out that goodness? If I dabble here and there in sin--saying yes to little "pleasures" that I could try to justify all day long--my testimony is ruined, my relationship with my Savior tarnished, my own soul blotched and stained. So many pairs of eyes watch me, even when I'm feeling all alone, and if such is the case, how can I let myself go again and blatantly say no to what I know is right. I shouldn't; I can't. Oh God, my God, earnestly will I seek You. Guard Your little child, and teach me to walk in Your footsteps day by day. Teach me to daily deny myself, take up my cross, and follow Thee.

A Year Ago, Today

Tears Down My Cheeks

Oh peaceful day
Where have you gone
I’ve gotten older
And you’ve left me alone.
The flocks have flown
The sparrows came and went
The cool air seeps into my lungs
But all I feel is older,
Older, and undone.
I used to listen to the sparrows
The morning doves and crickets too
I used to scan the skies for rainbows
And listen the rain fall on the roof.
I used to keep snails and frogs and snakes
And I used to listen to the leaves dancing upon the wind
I used to draw on the driveway with colored chalks,
And I used to shoot hoops, jump rope, ride my bike, and go on walks.
What do I have left but a busy day,
Countless heartaches and the memories of past mistakes?
When beauty has been tainted by darkness and sin
You tend to not see the beauty still around you because deep inside you feel that, like you, someday it will end.
I long to be back inside that little girl;
The one innocent to the world,
The one unscarred by violence
And unbroken by the loss of love.
I long to reach my arm up and trace the paneled lines of ceiling in my grammamma’s house in the mountains, hear the roar of the semi on the highway;
I long to dip my feet in the big river and fish with my papa of long ago.
I’m tired of the pain of life; I long to stay a little girl; curled up in the sleeping bag of dancing deer,
And dream of princes riding over mountain peaks.
I long to tuck my feet under me upon the window seat in that little cabin on the hill, and stay there till the sun sinks low.
I’ve slowly forgotten the child-dreams,
Forgotten the innocence of youth.
How I wish to return inside that little body, even with the rumpled braid and wild curls.
Where the pressure of life was not even a thought, and the joy of life was never-ending.
Maybe in my dreams tonight
I can be that little girl,
Because some days it’s too hard
To live in the wide, and lonely world.

The Trickle that Forms the Canyon

It's moments like these that my heart so desperately clings to. When memories flow through my tired head, not bad ones, or bitter times, but the little things that, like a trickle of water carves a canyon, have formed in me the fingerprints of my soul. I lay in my bed, my fuzzy blanket draped over my arms, the only one awake this wee hour, and I think of all the times I spent up till one, two, three, even five in the morning alone in that quiet house; whether my pen was stratching away at the paper, or my head rested against the window pane, staring at the majestic oak that graced the front lawn, or the moon and the bright morning star. Sometimes I would be curled up in front of the fireplace, or sprawled out on the floor, my curls wild, my eyes tired, never dreaming that those moments would someday end. But it seems like everything you love in life you lose, or the beauty is somehow stripped away. I heard once that what Satan cannot prevent, he perverts, and how true. All the beautiful things of the world, when viewed by darkened eyes, are only darkened things. For, "if the light in you is darkness, how deep is that darkness..." I've felt the oppressiveness of that kind of darkness; everything suddenly becomes a trap, a snare, a lie, a perversion, but how far that darkness is from the truth. "God is light, and in Him is no darkness at all." In Him, and Him alone, purity and goodness and love reign fully; in us, darkness hides in deepest corners, waiting to creep out and engulf our lives and steal our souls. It's at those times when I feel a bitter, empty anger grip my heart and mind; it brews a storm within me and makes my days a challenge and a torture, rather than a blessing. I need to learn to cling to my Savior more, for how can I call Him my Savior if I keep returning to the very things He's saved me from? That's just it--I can't. But He is my Savior, my Lord and King--Jesus Christ--the One who died for me. So tonight I'll rest my head on my pillow, and think of all the blessings lavished upon me. Morning by morning, grace anew; evening by evening, redemption coming through. I have a new home--not the same, but a roof and a bed. I have a family that still is together--different, yes, than three years ago, but better despite the pain. I have a ministry I love, that God has never ceased to use. I have food in my belly and water to quench a parched throat. I have freedom to speak my heart, sing to my King, disagree with the government, make a difference. I am blessed. Even though in my mind I have been reduced, I am by far richer than most of the world. My eyes see, my ears listen, my mouth tastes, my knees bend; I can read and I can write--I am a privileged human being. With all the pain of past days, I am still a blessed person. May I never forget, even in the darkest days to come. I'll remember the oak in the front lawn, and the apple in the back. I'll remember the graves of family pets, and recall the scent of the roses in the garden. I'll be thankful for the time I had, and not bitter about the time I don't. 

Prayers of a Tired Mind

There are some days in which that sickening loneliness pervades so many of my thoughts and words that it becomes all that I can write, or even think. Somehow it creeps into my veins like a drug, and the symptoms take years to fade away, like the memories. And then, there are days like today; I look back and my hasty heart brushes past all the feelings and memories of the past. In a search for the new I forget the old, forget the lessons learned, forget the pain. A strange wildness creeps into my heart and turns my eyes from the past; suddenly the green of my eyes sparkles to match the budding of spring. It's a new year, a new day--everyday; I have so many opportunities to change the way I think, the attitude that controls so much of who I am, and even the way that my many moments slip into eternity. Wildly the wind bursts through the trees, no longer shy, but excited, and my heart catches it's thrill. My eyes open to see the silver lining on the clouds as the sun is sinking low; buds suddenly burst from branches of trees and bushes, the many, many bird songs are heard romancing through the twilight sky. As that evening sun sinks lower and lower on the horizon, and all those songs sink into soft coos, and then quiet breathing, my heart also quiets, and my mind starts to dull. That heaviness is creeping over my eyelids, and the warmth of slumber overtakes my bones. Subtly the tenseness of the day melts away until my mind realizes that this pencil has slipped from my fingers and rests on my sheets like a stranger. The wild curls that grace my head lie still upon my pillow, no longer blown by gusts of wind or teased by flakes of snow. My cheeks, once pink, now mellow into softer tones, and as I sleep this light will flicker, to and fro, dim and brighter, like the flickering of my soul. Maybe tonight I'll find the rest that my soul and body craves. Maybe tonight this dream I dream will be illuminated by my mind. Maybe tonight I'll close my eyes, not exhausted from never going anywhere, but rather preparing for a day in which every breath is a moment in which I can live to the fullest. And again my prayer will rise to God, a fragrance from my lips: create in me a clean heart, O God, and renew a right spirit within me; teach me to number my days, to apply my heart unto wisdom. Oh God, my God, earnestly will I again seek You.

Drifting Away, I Know

It's a nice feeling when someone wants to hold onto you. I'm sure we've all had that experience of wanting someone close to you, and in your life so badly that you end up clinging to them too tightly, so tightly that they feel suffocated. I wonder if that whole experience could be avoided if they too held on--onto you. Maybe we feel the need to cling tighter when we feel like we are being let go, and deep inside a tingling panic starts to take control of what we do. Suddenly everything focuses in on that one person, and how they are slowly slipping away. They don't answer your texts, don't return your phone calls, pretend like they don't see you in the grocery store, and then one day you wake up to realize that they're not even around anymore--they've moved away, moved on with their life, forgotten you. And you feel ashamed for clinging, but yet a sickening sadness clings to your heart and your bones and your heartbeats. A heavy sheen of sadness clings to the tears forming in the corners of your eyes, and you suddenly develop allergies when your family asks why your nose is dripping so much that you have to carry tissues. The days drag on and on, seemingly with no purpose and no plan, and you feel like you're not going anywhere. Stuck in a one-horse town, seeing the same faces every day, and it grows so old that you wish you could die in your sleep. When night comes, it's all you can do to stay in your bed; instead you feel like pacing the length of this empty house or jogging down the street at 3am until you break a sweat in the February air. All at once everything that you see reminds you of them--the steaming cup of tea on the counter, the cute couple holding hands in the grocery store, the park full of green grass that you laid in together and shared dreams--even the way you pull your chapstick out of your pocket, even the way the breeze brushes your cheek like his fingers used to do. Tomorrow turns into today, and today turns into yesterday; yesterday into last week, and last week into last month; every hour the agony fades so imperceptibly until one night, you realize that agony has been replaced with sadness, and sadness with apathy, and apathy with regret. Regret turns into bitterness, but the bitter taste in your mouth will slowly wear away, just like the taste of his kiss did, just like the memory of his arms faded from your dreams. Maybe, in the end, time doesn't heal old wounds, but rather covers them with a layer of sadness, just so that your heart won't beat all of its life-blood out of your veins onto the concrete. It may not waste all your blood, but in the end, it still stains the ground, and you are still left weaker than you ever were before.

In the Middle of These Moments

Like soft fingers grazing my skin, the sunlight through the window warmed my cheeks; the light filtered in through the foggy kitchen window and spread a soft evening glow upon the room. I love the feel of that light upon my skin, when the light doesn't burn, but warms even though this February breeze cools my face and makes goose bumps rise on my arms. Eyes closed, I hear, for the first time, the beginning of this spring blooming in the voice of the robin echoing through that light I love so much. No matter where I am, when I hear that song suddenly I feel like I'm at home. Maybe it's ingrained into my memory like a chisel makes a crack in stone. The planes flying close spin me back to hot summer days and warm autumn nights when the crickets chirp and sing along with the robins. I see my deep eyes reflecting; they shine a laughing green into the mirror of this glass back at me; through the glass I watch the birds play in the streets and swoop between the trees, dancing in the fading sunlight of those little hours when romance seems to fill the air and fill my lungs with songs I've never sung. I know that no matter where I am and wherever this body will carry my soul, I will still be moved by those moments. Some days I'll forget the memories, those days when the only thing pervading my soul is an overwhelming darkness. I long for those summer days to come around again--when quiet walks through empty woods will calm my heart, and empty meadows become amphitheaters for me to watch the stars. I wonder if I'll ever forget the way we looked at the stars together, or if I'll ever forget the way your arm nonchalantly slipped around my shoulders. Maybe I shouldn't cherish those memories anymore, now that you're not a part of my life. Maybe I should just remember all the times I've sought the pattern of the constellations alone, only remember the quiet moments when my heart was engulfed in peace that comes from God alone. Maybe I'll just wander through these woods that my mind has memorized in my dreams, sometimes haunted, sometimes bright--maybe I'll just close my eyes and once again listen to the songs that ring through my head; revel in the good memories, and try to forget the bad.

It Thrills, Then Burns

There is a mad, reckless abandon that at some point in our lives will grip our hearts and suddenly spin our lives into places that we never thought we would be in. First, it scares us, then, as we grow used to the idea it wraps it's fingers around our heart and squeezes until we think that we want what it has to offer--this recklessness, but deep inside, does it really make us who we are? Does it really define the struggles we face, the pain we hate, the love we pour out? I have this slight feeling tingling in the back of my head that the closer we bring this sort of recklessness into our lives, the more it destroys us. A wildfire let loose in our soul. The heat thrills, then burns us; and all that is left when the fire dies is scarred and charred remains, blackened and consumed without mercy. I wonder if a forest feels achingly empty after flames have consumed it's green glory. All that is left is barren soil; but though it has been burned, it has been infused with more nutrients than it has had for years. I wonder if those of us who have felt the consequences of that recklessness, after we are charred and burned and left empty, and have determined to shun such a foe suddenly become enveloped with a certain wisdom that comes with past mistakes and pain that has touched the deepest parts of who we are. Of course, not everyone will turn from that intoxication--they are the ones who are addicted to breaking their own heart. Even though pain has seared them in the past, they are determined that what they think they want will someday turn into something beautiful. And then...here I am, caught in the middle like I always seem to be. I'm never one or the other. Some days I remember the pain of the past and I retreat into my shell of "wisdom" and careful scrutiny, scolding myself when my head turns from my path, and then other days my heart says what the heck and flings itself back into that reckless abandon. That is, until night comes when I'm alone again, and the only thing here is the ticking of the clock. A comfort when I am wise, the face of a laughing scoffer when I am foolish. My body alternately cares for and hates itself, my mind constantly switches between feeling loved and feeling so alone that it makes me want to die. And so many times I look in the mirror and hate the dullness that has crept into my eyes; I see the blotches of my skin and violently wish to hate someone or something for my pain and imperfection, while all along, the only one to blame is me. I still have control over my life even when others hurt and abuse me; I don't have to give in and lower myself to their standards, I don't have to beat myself up day after day just because someone doesn't see my worth, just because someone doesn't love me. The words echo and reverberate within me like a beating drum or a breathing monster. If you bother to look closely you will see my hands tighten against this bridge railing--see my knuckles start to whiten when the realization hits me that once again, words are but words. Once of these nights I'll no longer be able to breathe. But I've said that before, haven't I? I wonder if one of these days you won't believe me.

Maybe I Live Too Little

Yesterday's night somehow you crept into my dreams, and you had your arms wrapped around me, and it felt so real. I woke up to realize that I had wrapped my own arms around my stomach; I had been holding myself. Then last night I dreamed that a head was on my shoulder, and a hand was holding mine, and I woke up with my own head resting on my shoulder, and my hands held each other. Am I meant to be alone forever? Will I only experience tender love in my dreams?

Maybe I need to learn to cherish my own skin instead of waiting for someone else to first. Maybe I'm too lost to realize that I've already  been found. Some times I just want someone to stop and say "I love you," and actually mean it. And then maybe I think too much. Maybe I write too much. Maybe I live too little.

100 Ways

1} Tell me that you love me every morning when you wake up, whether we are together or apart; write me a note, whisper it into my sleeping ear, send me a text, or shake me awake enough just to hear you whisper the words.
2} Tell me that you love me when I don't have any makeup on and my hair is a mess; when I think I look my worst and I think I look my best.
3} Tell me that you love me in the middle of the night when I wake up because of nightmares and you feel me tremble under the sheets.
4} Tell me that you love me when you see my eyes are filled with pain and you know I'm thinking of my past mistakes.
5} Tell me that you love me when I'm sick to my stomach with the flu, nauseated by the scent of food and pale as death and weak as un-steeped tea.
6} Tell me that you love me when our children scream and whine.
7} Tell me that you love me when I'm cooking dinner every night; when I set the silverware out in straight lines and when the milk spills on the floor.
8} Tell me that you love me when the skies are overcast and grey; when the rain falls in sheets and you see the tears seeping through my eyes to match the cold, dead skies.
9} Tell me that you love me when all the lights go out; when it's just you and me all snuggled on the couch.
10} Tell me that you love me when all I can think of is the pain and destruction that riddles the world we live in.
11} Tell me that you love me when we gather to hear God's words spoken to our hearts.
12} Tell me that you love me when the times of disaster come; broken hearts, families falling apart; wildfires, earthquakes, floods; hunger, and disease.
13} Tell me that you love me when we make pancakes together in the kitchen; when we lick the spoons we use to mix the batter and when we hear the pop-pop-pop of the sizzling on the griddle.
14} Tell me that you love you me when my body's wracked with shivers.
15} Tell me that you love me when you find me laying in the grass looking at the clouds or stars or sky.
16} Tell me that you love me when you see me trying to decide what clothes to wear.
17} Tell me that you love me when I tell you that we're going to have a baby.
18} Tell me that you love me when my middle swells and bulges; when I can no longer see my feet.
19} Tell me that you love me when the pain of labor rips through my body.
20} Tell me that you love me when I'm tired and worn out.
21} Tell me that you love me when you see the clouds of depression forming around my head and heart.
22} Tell me that you love me when I burst into giggles and want to play hide and seek.
23} Tell me that you love me when I climb into your lap and rest my head on your chest.
24} Tell me that you love me when I squeal and run away from spiders.
25} Tell me that you love me when I my legs shake from fear of heights or falling dreams.
26} Tell me that you love me when a shade of sadness steals into my eyes.
27} Tell me that you love me when the sensitive pieces of who I am tremble at other's words and looks.
28} Tell me that you love me by picking me flowers in the spring.
29} Tell me that you love me by holding my hand when we go on walks or hikes or ride bikes.
30} Tell me you love me by helping me put on my coat.
31} Tell me you love me by pulling out a chair for me; or opening a door for me.
32} Tell me that you love me by noticing the itty-bitty parts of my soul that I try so hard to hide away.
33} Tell me that you love me by remembering how I like my tea.
34} Tell me that you love me by calling me when you're away.
35} Tell me that you love me by pulling me close into your arms and holding me close to your heart.
36} Tell me that you love my by being a kid again with me.
37} Tell me that you love me by finding me a baby frog.
38} Tell me that you love me by caring more about me than you care about yourself.
39} Tell me that you love me after I've made you mad.
40} Tell me that you love me when the wind howls outside the window panes.
41} Tell me that you love me when we've been together years and years.
42} Tell me that you love me still when those years have made me old and tired.
43} Tell me that you love me when I'm mad at the world and I feel like screaming out my lungs.
44} Tell me that you love me when I lock myself in the bathroom and cry alone on the floor.

45} Tell me that you love me when I'm out of breath and my heart feels so weak.

46} Tell me that you love me when no one seems to care.

47} Tell me that you love me when my makeup's all in smears.

48} Tell me that you love me when I wreck our car and dent the neighbor's.

49} Tell me that you love me when the bank account's all empty.

50} Tell me that you love me when we have trouble with our kids.

51} Tell me that you love me when we have to move away.
52} Tell me that you love me by going on adventures with me.
53} Tell me that you love me by making me my favorite cookies.
54} Tell me that you love me by taking time to get to know me; not just once, but all the time.
55} Tell me that you love me by leading me in the way of righteousness.
56} Tell me that you love me by sharing with me your heart.
57} Tell me that you love me by being able to admit when you've been or done wrong.
58} Tell me that you love me by treating me as a princess, even though it sounds cliché.
59} Tell me that you love me by lifting me up to our God in prayer.
60} Tell me that you love me by loving my own.
61} Tell me that you love me by taking me fishing and doing everything for me except catching the fish.
62} Tell me that you love me by teaching me the skills you know.
63} Tell me that you love me by being patient with my tender, sensitive heart.
64} Tell me that you love me by being interested in the things I love.
65} Tell me that you love me by helping me paint and repaint the walls.
66} Tell me that you love me by being honest with me, with your job, with God, with yourself.
67} Tell me that you love me by staying up late into the night with me.
68} Tell me that you love me by understanding when I have to stop and rest.
69} Tell me that you love me by pausing to find constellations with me.
70} Tell me that you love me by valuing my opinion.
71} Tell me that you love me by letting me make decisions.
72} Tell me that you love me by never threatening to leave.
73} Tell me that you love me by never lifting a hand against me.
74} Tell me that you love me by living responsibly.
75} Tell me that you love me by putting your relationship with God above your own desires.
76} Tell me that you love me by loving God more than you love me.
77} Tell me that you love me by reading the words I so love to write.
78} Tell me that you love me by being willing to listen to all my stories and memories and pain.
79} Tell me that you love me by listening to repeats.
80} Tell me that you love me by speaking tenderly to me.
81} Tell me that you love me by action and not only word.
82} Tell me that you love me by offering to fold the laundry.
83} Tell me that you love me by doing without being asked.
84} Tell me that you love me by scooping the ice cream so I don't have to.
85} Tell me that you love me by believing my dreams with me.
86} Tell me that you love me by listening to what I have to say.
87} Tell me that you love me by going ice skating with me, even if you're horrible at it.
88} Tell me that you love me by being excited to be with me.
89} Tell me that you love me by paying attention and not ignoring me.
90} Tell me that you love me by not keeping me at arm's length.
91} Tell me that you love me by taking care of me when I'm old and feeble.
92} Tell me that you love me by always trying to do your best.
93} Tell me that you love me when others say they hate me.
94} Tell me that you love me when the days are hot and dry.
95} Tell me that you love me by the moon and candlelight.
96} Tell me that you love me by having long conversations with me.
97} Tell me that you that you love me by always being faithful.
98} Tell me that you love me by remaining ever true.
99} Tell me that you love me every night as I close my eyes to sleep.

100} Tell me that you love me when my breath is slowly fading away; when my eyes are closing and my soul is passing into eternity.
101} Tell me that you love me when the hand you hold there has grown cold and all that lays before you is a shell of someone who never stopped loving you.

A Heart Half Full

Here I am again sitting in this room that is slowly growing into becoming home, and I'm trying to absorb some of this silence. Just listen to the ticking of the clock and let my heart drift into a comfortable sleep again. If it wasn't so cold outside I'd go look at the stars, but I'm not about to go lay in the snow. So I'll just stare at the ceiling and imagine those tiny points of light peering down at me. I thought it would be easy to do, and yet somehow my mind just can't seem to be able to pull them back. Isn't it strange how the lovely, beautiful things that we should remember so clearly slip from our memories so easily, while the blackness and pain stick like glue to scar and mar our souls. I wonder if that just might be part of the curse of the fall, where suddenly our ability to enjoy and retain the beautiful and good slowly slips away and instead the darkness of the world seeps into our bones and infects everything we do and say and think. And we're all born into that darkness, and each of our souls drip with that night. Deep inside I know that the darkness inside my soul need not remain darkness, and yet when I search for the light I go to a light bulb instead of the sun, and then my heart cries and shrivels when it burns out or fades away. I wonder how long it will take me to realize that there is only one Light that will truly ever make my own eyes shine. I don't understand how I let my heart and soul wander off down so many other paths to search for that part of me that will truly make me whole. Oh I don't understand, and yet somehow I do because I know what it feels like to sit in the silence and know that you are the only one in the world who listens to the beating of your heart or feels the way your lungs move as you breathe. I know what it's like to crave that one person who hungers to know your soul more than every inch of your body. I know what it's like to curl up in your bed and hide your head under the covers wishing that somehow, somehow, you could wake up and be somewhere different, doing something different, being someone else. I know. Believe me, I know. And yet, even that won't fill me. Because I shall never be satisfied with a heart only half full.

Once Again, There is Beauty

My eyes cracked open this morning to see an overcast sky peering between the slats of my blinds and through the branches of the sleeping lilac outside my bedroom window. Cool air drifted in through the open window above my head and bathed my skin in such sweet cool intoxication. It's not until my lungs have been deprived of that fresh air that I realize how much it soothes me to breathe in the wildness of the sky. My favorite blanket was tucked up to my chin and as I watched the branches swaying in the breeze I realized just how happy I was at that moment. To wake up bathed in fresh air and my heart pulsating the thoughts of the King and the songs that give Him praise. So I sought those words I have known since I was a tiny child: Psalm 23. It has been those words that have shaped and molded my life; it is those words that show me that my Savior's path is a pleasant one, and He wishes to protect and provide for me; His plans are to help and heal me--to give me a future and a hope--to anoint my head with oil and make my cup of blessings run over. My Lord, and my God is my shepherd, in Him, I have no wants. He makes me sleep inside the calm of green pastures, He holds my hand and bids me drink beside brooks of the stillest waters--pure and wholesome. When my soul is shredded and torn by my own mistakes and the ugliness of the world, He restores it; He wipes His fingers across my many wounds and heals them in a moment. He leads me in the paths in which righteousness and goodness reigns, in the paths only He has been able to make, and He does this so His name will be praised through what He has done for me. Even though I walk through the valley of death and fear, in which every soul claws to eat my flesh, I will not fear, because He is with me, and He holds my hands. His rod corrects me when I turn astray and His staff reaches out to bring me back into His path and arms. They are my comfort in my darkest days. My God, He prepares a table before me, in which my thirsty soul is fed and sustained, and all this in the presence of those who hate me and use me. He pours the oil of blessing upon my head and makes my face shine with the glory of His face; in all this, my cup, it overflows; I am abundantly blessed, my soul is kept and guarded safe in my Father's strong loving hands. Surely this goodness and His mercy will follow me all the days of my life, and after this life shall pass, I shall dwell in the very house and throne room of my God, singing the praise of the One who always remained faithful no matter how many times I sought arms not meant for me to hold--no matter how many times I turned my face away in anger and bitterness--no matter how many times I ran from His searching gaze. This God, He loves me. He loves me so deeply that nothing can ever tear Him away from me.

Choking

I feel like every day I retreat deeper and deeper into myself. On those rare occasions when I let others see glimpses into my heart I feel so liberated and happy, because someone wants to understand my pain--they see it and yet they still want to help me through it and love me despite it. And then "reality" sinks in and I find myself regretting all those moments that I've shared and all the tears I've cried in someone else's arms, because they forget about me, or they say, well, your pain is in the past now, I don't have to lend my shoulder anymore. How cruel a trick it is to be there for someone and then suddenly disappear. It makes my heart ache and shrink in shame and bitterness, and for what? For being open and honest and revealing the hurt that scars my heart? For giving the tiny bits of love that I still have left? Really, it should be they who are ashamed of themselves, but more often than not they tell their buddies about how far they got with you, or how much they made you trust them, or how much they know you'll be craving their love and friendship and listening ears... While in the meantime it was all a farce, and so often than not I both feel and look like a fool. A fool who keeps trusting fools. A fool who wants to love, but there is no one to love. A fool who wants to spill my heart and my tears, and yet there is no shoulder that actually cares. And I wonder, how many prayers are offered for me? Specifically me? By hearts who really care and hearts who know my story and know my pain and have seen my many bitter tears. How can I justify giving my heart and love to someone who doesn't care to know about who I really am? Tell me, how can I? How does the rest of the world do it--do they just sleep around enjoying the moment and then when their hurt and bitterness shows through they drink it away? Tell me, is that true? Oh my dear God, I can't do it. I can't live that way. I'd rather give my love to nothing except birds and baby trees than have it wasted on some fool who only wants what he can get. And yet this pain that envelopes and chokes my heart tonight is so intensely real that either I wish to die or I wish to give in again and let those worthless arms hold me and just pretend that they actually care. But the pain just grows deeper and my emptiness aches and aches and aches until all I do at night is tremble in my bed and drown myself in saddened music. My soul is so thirsty tonight, so thirsty for the water of life that too often I foolishly forsake by trusting in my own heart, which I know is deceitful and desperately wicked. It's my own fault, I know, and I can't blame it on anyone but myself, but this sadness is choking my life, and one of these nights I'll no longer be able to breathe.

Foggy Head

Here I am, awake quite early this morning, with my tummy growling for it's breakfast but eyes and body not ready to leave this shell of warmth. I don't want to be sad anymore, but somehow I know when I fully wake up that I will be... And another day will slip silently away into eternity without even a fingerprint of mine to mark that I was here.

So Honest it's Painful

There is something about the night and the darkness that creates a heaviness in my soul...it's like I can hide all my sin in the sunlight because the stains are not visible, but to the eyes of the night, all my sins are perfectly clear. Maybe it's because it's easier to think dark thoughts in the dark...maybe because the darkness has been a constant companion and witness to the darkness that lurks inside my soul waiting to devour me, no matter where I run. Secrets create such an oppressiveness; they breed suspicion and worry, hate and anger...and yet we still hold on to them like they give us life. Lately there have been so many foreign thoughts whirring through my mind that three years ago I would not have even had the words to know or understand. It shocks me, and yet I feel I must write what is beating against my rib cage like a frantic bird. If I was going to commit suicide, I know exactly the place and the way...the thought terrifies me because I know my own fear of heights, and it was the highest drop I've ever seen into a river that looked so harsh and sickening...and yet the fear would almost seem like a blessing rather than the pain of both loss and reality. I saw a picture the other day, or rather I keep seeing pictures, of scars riddling the bodies of oppressed souls, and somehow vaguely my mind begins for the first time to understand the painful thrill of feeling a blade slice through your skin, watching the blood slowly seep through the layers of flesh...trying to make yourself realize that you really are alive, and the emptiness and numbness are just a condition of the mind. Somehow all at once the pieces of myself that I have for a long time despised stick out like a sore thumb as I gaze into the mirror. Once a long time ago someone told me I was beautiful, and kept telling me until I believed his soft voice whispering in my ear...and I was happy, because he saw me as I wanted to be seen. He loved me for who I was and his love stirred in me an appreciation, and maybe even a tinge of love for myself. And yet today what once was lies shattered and broken like shards of glass. I can't pick up the good memories to admire the glass without being cut by the sharp edges of the mistakes we made and the pain we caused. I look in the mirror and see the slant of my brow and the child-like curve of my face that so often I subconsciously try to hide in pictures; it's the uneven skin of my arms that seeps tiny points of blood when the skin is scratched; it's the blue cold numbness that grips my feet and makes it hard to walk without curling my toes; it's lump behind my ear that no one but me knows about because I'm scared to think of what it might be...or become, and I ignore the ache that throbs there as I swallow a few pills to make it go away. It's the way my ankles bend in an un-ordinary way, and the way my eyebrows have always been so thin and light. It's the way my heart thuds and makes my stomach lurch whenever I try to make it stronger--head so light and feet so heavy. There are so many things about me that I notice and despise within a millisecond of looking in that mirror in my room. I turn away from it, unable to believe the words that people say when they say I'm beautiful. When eyes turn and wander in grocery stores I look away embarrassed because of the flaw that they must see. There are so many things that stir within me painful thoughts and memories of mistakes I've made...when I see the charming purity of an untouched bride, when I see the happy sparkle of a child's eyes, when I see two people so in love with each other that they no longer see themselves, when I open the blade of my pocket knife, when I dream the dreams of my childhood in which I was falling--murdered, when I hear his name, or remember their friendship...
Maybe I'm still living in the past, and maybe all this pain that my heart keeps clinging to is slowly eating me alive, and in doing so, is killing me. Maybe is a huge word...with it you can convey uncertainty or skirt around words with playfulness. Maybe this, maybe that. All I am right now is tired, and that is no maybe. My eyes are growing heavy, but maybe when I wake up I'll remember just how much good and love and light and joy are really around me. Maybe tomorrow I'll realize just how much life I really have to live for; maybe tomorrow I'll understand the importance of cherishing the skin you call your own; maybe tomorrow I'll forget where I've been and look forward to where I'm going; maybe tomorrow I'll take pride in my imperfections because they are what makes me me; maybe tomorrow I'll forget all those old memories that still chain me to who I was and instead make new memories to spur me forward to who I will become. Please don't fear for me, I know that I am loved.

The Thoughts Invoked by a Hot Morning Shower

This morning I took a very long and very hot shower. I wondered how long it would take for the water to wash away every particle of old skin that covered me yesterday. I lifted my face to the shower head and let the steamy water soak into my pores, and it stung. I turned the water off and sighed; why did I feel so exhausted. As I stepped out of the tub and into the hot bathroom psychadelic colors swam inside my vision and my legs felt weak under me. Why is there such a sick sadness creeping into my bones? I breathe and the sadness flows from my lungs and pollutes everything around me. My heart feels as if a vice is restricting its pulses, and it's all I can do not to lay down and tremble and turn pale. The viens in my wrists and my hands bulge and throb as my blood struggles to feed my body. I watch the water drip from my long dark hair onto the cold tile floor. I hear airplanes soaring overhead and the neighborhood traffic of a Thursday morning, and yet, here I am sitting--feeling--so useless. 

A million thoughts are running through my head today, and most of them reek of self-pity and loneliness. Why do I feel like no one wants to see who I really am? Is it just that the people that I want to bare my soul to act as if they do not care? I suppose it's my fault, the way I'm feeling. I stake my happiness on things not meant for me and in places that will only cause me future pain and harm. I'll freely admit that I'm a fool, and anyone who calls me wise, if they listen close, will hear me laughing inside. A wise person knows what is right and follows it, I, on the other hand, know what is right and yet I turn my back on it. It's nothing to be proud of and as I write the words I feel shame within my soul, but I can't deny what I know to be true. I have the secret of life in my hands; I know the only thing that will ever satisfy my soul, and yet, I still search in the most unlikely places for a love I no longer expect. So don't look at me and say she's perfect, don't look at me and say she always does her best. There are too many things you do not know; too many things that I shall never be able to bring my voice to say.

Sometimes Dreams Teach You Things

Between the trees of the woods lingers a deep darkness; it creeps along and hides between the bark of trees and watches me as my feet crunch through last autumn's leaves. Like a million eyes watching, that darkness sees every blink of my eyes and every pulse of my heart seeping out like a rhythm through my veins. It sees my fingers begin to tremble as I sense its eyes watching me, and I know I'm not alone. The wind begins to sound like the rasping breathing of this monster-forest that somehow I have been lost inside. Between its gasps for air hangs a silence that is deafening, and my heart quickens with each step that I take. My eyes dart between trees and to every clump of underbrush, and every foreign sound sounds like a pair of footsteps stalking me. From underneath my tiny feet a mist rises from the ground. It wraps its icy fingers slowly around my toes, and then my ankles, forcing me to slow my hurried pace. It creeps up my calves and rests its fingers on my thighs, waiting for me to succumb to its sickening touch. But my eyes just grow wide in fear as the path before my feet grows hazy and then slowly disappears. I open my mouth in a silent scream, and the mist jumps down my throat and fills my lungs, and I fall, silent.
Now the beating of my heart has stopped, and my heart grows cold and blue. My fingers curl as tendons tighten, and my lips no longer smile. The mist turns into fog and covers up my skin. No eye, no heart, no beast, no bird can see the still form lying in the frosted leaves--hiding the shameful nakedness of the forest floor. But my eyes see me lying there, the fog condensing on my skin--grasping greedily every drop of heat my body held so dear. I feel so cold, so numb, so dead--so excruciatingly sad. I see myself from a distance; I'm no longer alive, but dead. The fear that always lurked inside my head somehow escaped into my veins; my heart believed its lies, and stopped; my eyes believed the eyes it saw, and closed eternally; my ears believed they heard my murder, so they refused to hear the words of life. And when I died I saw the truth, the lies I had believed. My soul is chained into this tree, my eyes fixed on the spot I lay, doomed to watch my flesh decay, my eyes roll back, my bones reign free. Oh that I had that life to live, I would live it oh so different. Fear would not deceive me so, and darkness wouldn't scare me so; the heights of canyons wouldn't make me tremble so, and the loss of love wouldn't make me so afraid to love.
We all have days we wish we could change--that we wish we could go back and re-live, but without the lessons of wrong days past, we would never survive the days to come.

Fragments of Thoughts

Some days it's all I can do to keep my guts from spilling out on the street. It seems as if all I ever do anymore is weep inside all day every day. Everything I do is either mediocre or worthless. None of them my dreams, none of them the things I long to do. I know that it's mostly my fault for not taking more of my future into my own hands, but I just can't, not with my family in shatters and no funds to even buy a new outfit. I wish that I could make the people see who I really am. . . I mean, half of the people who really knew me aren't even in my life anymore. I suppose at this point I'm just ranting. I just feel like no one wants to know the real me. The things that make me who I am everyone looks past like they doesn't even exist..

A Question that is Never Far Away

I want to fall wildly in love. So wildly that the inner child in me can't help but escape through my eyes. When whenever I feel like laughing I will, and when the tears stream down my face there are arms always willing to hold and soothe me. I want to be able to drench you in water and wipe flour all over your shirt when we're in the kitchen. I want to be able to giggle and run and hide behind corners while you grin and capture me. I want to be able to unburden my heart of all its anxieties and cares to that person who I know will never leave depending upon what I say. I don't want to have to guard my heart, but rather spill both the ugliness and the treasures upon that person who will love me and hold me no matter what I've done. I want that man who will hold my hand till the day that I die--be that old couple that still holds hands in the grocery store and laughs at the comics in the newspaper. I've said many times that I don't really have a desire to be married, but it's not true..so I won't say it anymore. I crave it like I crave oxygen. It's not just the arms that I want, but the security in knowing that someone loves me so deeply that they want to pledge their life to me--no matter if I am rich, or I am poor; no matter if I am sick, or I am strong; no matter if I am lovable or acting like a demon out of hell. And then my little hurting heart whispers, well, there's no one like that, kid, especially for you. Not just anyone can fill that void in my heart, it has to be the person made especially for me, the person that was made to be mine and I made to be his. I don't want to give myself away to someone who will be a fragment of my past someday, but rather someone who will always cherish me and whatever I have to give. But how do you wait in the meantime. Maybe that's why people are always searching for best friends, and they feel abandoned when they lose someone who was close to them--we have a longing to be close to others, we have a longing to trust. That's really what it is, isn't it? We all want to be able to trust someone with the treasure that we are...even if we say we aren't any treasure at all. And when there is no one...loneliness and hollowness seep into our bones and begin to eat us like acid. Maybe that's why God said it's not good that man should be alone... Tell me, is there anyone out there who will love without asking anything in return? Is there anyone out there that understands the importance of protecting the one they love, not only from others, but from their own self as well? One of my biggest struggles is believing that people mean what they say, that people wish good and not evil. So many nightmares have emerged that show people only wanting what they can get instead of wanting to give all they have...and every time I see a new nightmare or hear a new story I think is there anyone out there who doesn't always grasp for themselves? I know there must be...right?

My Name on the Wind

You are my darling child, My beloved. I gave you your name for a reason, My daughter. Before even time began your story had been written. I already knew the stabs of pain you would feel—I already knew the mistakes you would make and the many places in which you would search for—and yet find no—love. I already knew how many times you would turn from Me to follow your own heart and dreams and desires. And yet, when the moment of your conception came, I allowed you to be formed. As I knit your body together by My own fingers I thought of the life and the soul that would be joined to the skin. Twenty years ago at this time you had only been inside your mother's womb for two months, and yet, I knew you more intimately than you have ever known yourself. I saw your tiny body begin to shape and form. I wove the tapestry of your eyes together and etched the prints into your fingers. I held your tiny hands in Mine—felt the pulses of your beating heart. The months went by quickly and it became time for your mother to bring you forth. Between water and blood came a tiny child—my darling little one. You were no longer a secret to only My eyes—you became born to the world...and though you once knew Me, I have become a stranger to you. My whispers call to you on the breezes, and the flutter of wings spells your name. In every sunset I display My love for you, and every day I pour blessings upon you, but your eyes have been blinded by the darkness of the world around you, and you can no longer see the glory of My face. The tiny hands that I once molded and held now become clenched fists that you shake in My face. You must understand, My darling child, that though I may have the power to change your pain and your heartache, I prize your freedom above My own control. I swore when time began that men would be formed in the likeness of God, and into that likeness you were born. So not only are you free, but every other breathing soul is free as well. And though I love you more than you can ever understand, I will not force you to love Me in return. The choices of men will hurt you all your days, just like I am hurt when you fold your arms and turn away from Me every day. And though you turn from Me, I will not turn from you. My arms will ever tremble to be close to you again—to hold you close inside My arms and soothe your tired heart. You will ever be beautiful in My eyes, my precious one, no matter how many stains scar your heart and make you think they keep you from Me. Let me be your refuge.