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.