A Heart of Compassion

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

Wallowing

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

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

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

Gardens of Weeds

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