Just thinking about how you take broken bones and fashion them into beauty astounds me. I don’t get why you chose my story to ink Yourself all over the pages. I look back to a year ago, two years ago — and I remember.
I remember the fuzzy chapters, one after another, of dark, lonely woods.
I remember being unable to feel sadness and anger, laughter and joy.
I remember confusion that paved the way for fear to sink its grip, paralyzed.
It makes no sense to me how you can take someone so broken, so plastered with insecurity, doubt and her trusty, invisible, plastic shell– too afraid to let the cracks penetrate the surface for anyone to see.
I remember the winters of humility and isolation, of discovery and hurt.
I remember the anxiety of not knowing where or what the next step was.
I remember walking through hell’s valley and heaven’s victory– at the same time.
And I find myself driving down that winding, country road. Talking with you. Chatting with you. Expressing with you. Letting you into the exterior cracks you’ve taught me to wear as proof of how you paint them in beautiful hues. I let you in because I know you restore invisible wounds that took years to grow. Pain formed its rusty cage all around my shell-shocked heart. And I thought I was protecting me by building brick walls. But really, the iron-bars kept you from me, who I could be and who you’ve destined me to be.
You tore them down, iron brick by iron brick.
So here I am. I birth the frustrations into words- and bless them with love. I pray redemption and freedom over my spoken paragraphs. I release the natural tendency to hold tightly onto control, to feel guilty and responsible, to fix the messes too big for my arms to hold– and it’s in this moment I find rest.
Rest is it’s own kind of redemption, you see. Yeah, it was a Wednesday morning. And somewhere between harvested fields and the smell of cows, I began speaking the next chapter of my own redemption into words. I know I did. I believe you speak through me in the in-between, ho-hum moments. Where it’s just you and me. And I believe you’ve crafted the framework of a story that will be told through mine. And it’s one the world will see and hold. One that will be stand in the dark, low places. It will shout with vulnerability, waving freedom’s flag over the scars of whoever hears, its pages brimming with love at every crackly turn.
Like a fireplace with wispy flames burning slow, I hope my story sings of coming home.
Because the urge to grab enemies, the ones that bruised your heart dark purple and carved deep, painful edges into your story’s skin, by the shoulders and wrap them in a hug isn’t the “human” thing to do.
Because the desire to look back at previous chapters and erase the black cape of a character you stamped as evil; and to re-write them as someone who is indefinitely worthy of grace– to see both lives through a messy-beautiful lens? It isn’t instinct.
Because sitting with the ones closest to your soul in complete silence, touching their still-red scars with gentleness and letting tears pour down their cheeks is not something that just happens on a Tuesday night.
I’m learning, oh I am: it’s in moments where redemption weaves itself into the threads of our lives. It’s living with intention for each moment. It’s in the struggle and depression, in the laughter and guitar strums. It’s souls grieving together. It’s coming alongside to carry the weight of the overwhelmed. It’s staying still and fully present, Spirit-eyes open, looking to find how you move in the seconds. It’s letting go of jealousy and resentment– not only biting your tongue but rebuking it by throwing out the darkness. It’s choosing light. It’s choosing love instead. It’s choosing to whisper thanks for this very moment, arms open wide. To dwell in the peace of gratitude.
This is a holy moment.
And I choose to be yours.
There’s no where else I could go,
but your never-failing arms.