I open my hands. Expecting. But my heart is closed, the distractions pulling me. Yanking me for attention. And I give it to them. Willingly. Gladly. Blindly. I close my hands, my heart now jammed shut. I turn my back and seek the affirmation, the comfort of public praise.
It doesn’t come. I turn again and open my hands. I cry, the distractions pulling me. Give in? Yes, because this time the comfort of empty affirmation will come. It doesn’t feel empty though. It feels wholesome, nutritious, as though I need it. To be happy. And maybe it has even come to that.
I give in again, my hands balled in fists, my heart sinking lower beneath the noise—bolted. I seek and scrounge for the praise, the confirmation. Why do they not care? Where is the affirmation?
I am dizzy, but I turn again. Open my hands. Expecting. Though, my heart is closed. “GOD! WHY DO I FEEL LIKE THIS?!”
Blind-sided. Because darts and lies are attacking me, the ones I did not expect–but ones I should have known were coming. Open hands, a closed heart? Ears turned to the crowd and not the Lord? Of course, the pull would be stronger than I.
“GOD! This has never been a struggle before! Why am I so weak?” But I don’t listen to His prompting, the distractions are too loud, the desire for affirmation–empty though it may be—is wrapped tight around me. The potential affirmation is deafening. I am turning. Turning. Toward God, then my back to Him. Toward God, than my back to Him. Toward. Back. Open hands, closed heart. Deaf ears, busy mind.
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