You Want My Brokenness

You said that it was finished, that it was completely done, but somehow it still visits me...that haunting memory of who I once was, the leftovers of a corrupted soul, evidence still sneaking its way into a redeemed life.

I can't escape it. The sights are too vivid, the wicked whispers make too much sense and I listen. Why do I listen? I clench my eyes shut, attempting to drown the thoughts that swim so skillfully, but their talents are no match for my weakness. The light casts its shine on all of my mistakes, the realities that surround me. I thirst for tomorrow, an empty slate, eyes awakening to a fresh start, and You give it to me. Why do you give it to me? 

You touch that fiery substance in the sky and carry it slowly out of sight, leaking coats of flaming orange, washing away the sins that stand before me and covering all the regrets with a blanket of darkness. Soft whispers of goodnight resound in my ears, mind, and heart as I close my eyes.

I sneak a glance ahead and smile. The strong shades of orange have been mixed with hot reds, burning the fears and failures to ash. You look at me and I am amazed that You are able to look past me. You look past me and see what You have made me. I want to look away, to hide myself, my sinful self, from Your perfect image, but Your eyes hold on to mine. You don't let go. I've let You down again, but that's not what You see. I am broken, but You love my brokenness. You have paid for it all and so I draw near to You, shaking and still so ashamed. You hold me and remind me, not who I was, but who You are and then it all becomes clear to me. I am forgiven. I let go of those nightmares, those memories of who I was and I fall. I fall into Your loving arms once more, knowing that You are forever. You won't leave me, though You have every right to. You love with a love that never lets go and You always will.

I am unstable in all my ways, a walking heartache, but You tell me that it is finished, that what You complete is completely done, and You cannot lie, and so I believe.

Click here and listen to these truths

Perspective

I wait for you. The little hands on that clock have been rolling on and on for hours and it seems endless.  Sometimes I wonder if you'll ever show yourself, and usually you don't. Often your presence graces me in morning air, but all too often you are late, you wait until dusk to arrive. Oh, but I never do complain. In all honesty, I'm just relieved that you decided to show yourself at all.

Your name is perspective and you have a funny sense of humor. We get on well at times, but you're existence is so unstable, making our relationship...well...somewhat of a challenge. I don't care too much for you when you're gone.  In fact, I despise you. Why don't you pick up on these simple hints, the looks we exchange when you stumble through that door, giving me that sly smile, in hopes that I will look over your inconsiderate behavior? Do you know how long I've waited here? Why could you not appear sooner? Are you so busy with the cares of others, melting their stress away and sprinkling inspiration on their days?

I feel the emptiness closing in, that sense of purpose wandering, slipping through the grip of my fingertips. I'd hold on to you, but it all seems so...so helpless.

I laugh, ever so slightly. Is that you, perspective? I know it isn't you, for you've made yourself a stranger. I've lost count of all the seconds that I've spent waiting for you. I know that you've been gone, all the day, someplace else, everywhere else, except here. Something drops, a weight from inside me. No, surely it wasn't you. It was my choice to do something about it, not yours. Those hours I spent waiting for you to arrive, it was my choice to leave, to end the dripping complaints, to get on with my life.

I feel the cool night air, whispering through the window and pull my sweater closer to me. I seem to notice every little pleasure this night has to offer, the frustrations of the day seem a little less important than they did earlier. I come up the stairs, walking that creaky and familiar route. The world is so still up here. Crickets have performed that very tune night after night, all summer long and I think they have finally perfected it.

Perspective? Do you arrive when you choose, or was it my actions that brought you here? I've always put it on you, all that responsibility, when in reality you are just a word. You are just a word that I can use to describe what I am doing, what I've been waiting for...this sense of trust, purpose. This peace in knowing that it will all be okay. This peek inside the studio where the Artist paints the big picture.

I think I feel it sinking in. I know I've said this before, but something's different this time. Something's changed. Don't look at me like that, as if I'm the one walking in so late. Haven't I been waiting for you all this time? Or perhaps it was me who kept you waiting. Yes, I remember. We've talked this over before, haven't we? You aren't someone I know, you're something I do. You're that choice, that discipline of thoughts and actions. Our relationship is unstable, yes, but only because I treat you as if you were some sort of inspiration, dropping in unexpectedly.

Forgive me for treating you as if you were pixie dust, a handful of magic. You are a choice. Realistic. Logical. You are there, always, unless I push you into the shadows. So come on out of there. No, you don't need to inch out slowly, I won't bite. Ah, there you are. Now I can see you, almost entirely. It's good to have you here, keeping my mind and heart awake. Ha, I was about to request that you prolong your visit, but I suppose I should be telling myself to guarantee the hospitality.

Afraid Of Fear

Some words we just don't talk about and if we do venture to discuss them it isn't in a questioning sort of manner. There is an invisible line that just can't be crossed...or can it? That line was drawn by prisoners of fear and once a single soul was held captive, the numbers only increased and the more we heard of it, the more we were convinced, fooled into bondage by the least productive myth of all time.
To be afraid is to be trapped inside a cell with key in hand. You are your own prisoner. This condition is self-inflicted, because you chose to consume the lies that satan fed you.
I know fear. It visits me often and only because it knows that I am a returning customer, weak and susceptible to its techniques. Whether its anxiety attacks that assault the physical, or distrusts of the mind that aren't even available for public discussion. I know fear and fear knows me, but there is a way for us to be strangers.
I've thought about fear in a way that questions its existence, examines the source to find that there is no source. I think on the worst thing that could possibly happen and find that I'd rather endure that one thing I am afraid of than the shaking of hands and shortness of breaths, the thoughts that eat away at my soul. I've come to the all too obvious conclusion that fear isn't necessary, its not productive. The number of verses concerning this subject is astonishing. The answer is within those leather-bound pages of scripture, and it is the only medication that will ever work. When you take a pill you might need food or water to wash it down and keep it there, but when it comes to this medicine, the words of Christ, trust is the only necessary companion for the treatment to take effect.
I am afraid of fear, but a little less than I was yesterday. It hasn't completely disappeared and not because the medication of truth is defective, but because my sinful tendency to distrust the sovereignty of God prevents it from going away completely. I try not to think about fear, but when it does revisit me I feed myself truth and I practice trust. Sometimes though, I am afraid to even think about it. I was afraid of even writing this post, pathetic as that might sound, because it would remind me, but the possibility of others with the very same "condition" led me to share these things. I know that you're out there, but I don't know if you're reading this. I pray that you are, because I want to remind you that fear is ridiculous. It doesn't accomplish anything. Think about it. Really think about it. Can't you see it? We have nothing to fear, but fear itself and God has already conquered fear, freed us of it and He tells us repeatedly, over and over again, because He knows how scared we are and He wants us to trust Him, to take refuge in Him, to live the full life, to love as if we knew nothing of hurt and run without the fear of falling.

        "The Lord is with me; I will not be afraid. What can man do to me?" ~Psalm 118:6

I Have A Voice

 

 They say its the quiet ones you have to watch out for and as you read on you might see there can be some truth to that, but is there really such a thing as...quiet people? The one who does not talk usually observes and with the process of observation comes a world of pondering. Musings that race, skip and even drag out in a slow or dramatic fashion. Noise, soft, but mostly noise; and by noise that does not interpret strictly to something such as banging cymbals into each other senselessly. Sometimes that noise can be music, a song that leaves its mark on every moment, a soundtrack or narration to a world that is aching to be described.

My mind is often a place of organized chaos. Dreams are in that category right over there, memories to the left, and ideas...well, they seem to scatter themselves somewhere in-between, or wherever they choose. That's the thing about inspiration...it has a mind of its own.
In a group conversation, my thoughts are active in participation, but scarcely is the memo passed down to my tongue to get it out. It isn't as though I feel cheated, that I have my own rights and I should say my peace. No, it is a choice, a subconscious decision to listen and learn, smile or even cry. Though, I must admit, there are times when a thought wants to blurt itself out, but is not given proper opportunity. Those are the times that every inch of my mind comes together and cries out a statement that is never heard: "I have a voice. Let me out, please." It is such a faint cry that I barely even hear it and what would the world do with it anyway? Is it even worth verbalizing? Sometimes, perhaps, but for those thoughts forgotten, I might never know.

I seem to have an invisible bank of dimes, built up for every remark that sounds something like this, "You're quiet aren't you?" No, I'd like to respond, but I usually just shrug my shoulders and try to answer that question for myself. Me, quiet? That's hilarious. I have something to say about most things, a response to almost everything, whether it is sure or indecisive. Someone asked me the other day what in the world I was thinking and I laughed. Is it that obvious? Most people can't see it, but there are few who can see past the silence, hear for themselves muffled conversations dripping down from the mind of another. Those are the ones who experience it themselves...this constant madness and silent wonder, a world unseen, an ear-splitting silence that sounds nothing like silence. There might very well be quiet people out there, but I doubt I could ever be categorized amongst them. Could you?

"Be wary of the author. She may put you in a book and kill you." ~Amanda Flynn 

Don't Forget // Keep Your Eyes Open

Most days I've been content to just listen as drops would pound or drip on my window pane, but I knew it was not one of those days. Somewhere between mild rainstorm and intense downpour I knew it was time. I pulled that big old door open and breathed in the clean air. Wind ruffled trees, causing leaves and branches to fall prematurely.

I stood under the dry roof, feeling the wild mist on my skin and reached out my hand. The water was cold and strong, it came down hard, but yet it was delicate, so peaceful. It was like standing at the edge of a pool, dipping toes in the water, contemplating. I'll get wet...what will the nieghbors think?

I wasn't particuarly...how can I say this...happy. It just wasn't one of those, "I feel like singing in the rain," sort of days. Troubles were building up, weighing me down. I prayed for something, anything! Even a quiet whisper would do, if I could just know that there was hope. I just want to feel okay again.

One foot in front of the other. Just jump. That was all it took. I raced myself to the other side of the house and then back again, standing beneath the heavy drippings of the roof. It was like a cold shower that shocked my skin, but I didn't want to complain about it. I laughed. I don't know why, I just did. My clothes were soaked and it...it felt good.

I think I must have forgotten what it felt like. It was like waking up, as if I had been half asleep through the days, looking, but not really seeing, not really feeling, processing.

I don't have anything great or inspirational to pass on to you, but there is something that I need you to hear. You haven't lived until you've let the raindrops stain your skin. Don't forget what that feels like. If you pray for an answer, don't wait too long to listen for it. Sometimes hope comes in little doses. Sometimes joy isn't something you wait for, it's something you work for. Keep your eyes open and stay awake, fully awake.

City Life // I Can't Breathe // But You're Still Beautiful

It's the clapping of flip flops on cement sidewalks, the soundtrack of sirens and impatient car horns. It's the number of passerbys that I can't even count, the long lines and building anticipation. It's the clicking of the shutter, again and again, all of this must be captured...I want to capture it, but I can't. It's the faint cry of homeless individuals and the sight of troubled souls. It's the tourists and the locals, the confident and the lost. It's the little feet trying to keep up and catching rides on shoulders. It's the important conversations that try to take place, but are all too soon interrupted by something trivial.

It's the lurking pigeons mooching off of outdoor diners, making a living off of the kids and carefree persons that find enjoyment in their existence. It's that small window of opportunity, when the light turns and you, the rushed pedestrian, have a chance to finally cross, with less likelihood of being pancaked by that yellow cab.

It's the jokes exchanged between bites, the laughter you just can't seem to get enough of. It's the reflection of clouds in dirty puddles...a painted picture out of filth...ugly made beautiful. It's those tall buildings that remind you you're so small, those massive clocks screaming mixed messages for different lives..."You're late," or "Take your time." It's those sketchy characters that intrigue you and make you nervous, it's those ordinary souls that leave you just as curious...what's their story? It's that sound of the small boats on calm waves...clap, clap, clap. It's the edge of the city with a bay inbetween, then city on the other side. Noise, peace, noise again.

What is it about this place that leaves me with such a bittersweet aftertaste? I love it, but I want to leave it. It's beautiful and yet its madness. I want to stay, but I can't wait to be free.
I could never fit in here...sure, I can pretend, for a day or so, but it's not where I belong. The city, for me at least, is one of those places that I love to visit, but I could never live there, not forever, and I'm thankful that I don't.

 

 

What do you love or hate about cities?