You find me here again. You see me in this place. You hear me find the edge. You feel me as I walk.
And I am overwhelmed tonight.
And I am scared of life.
Everywhere is busy and nothing feels like home. My spirit falls below my heart, and the air around is tight. If I was somewhere else, perhaps, my world would be set right. This frantic life would cease. I’d be held within His arm and the whispered “Peace, be still” would pause my stormy world, and I would be alright.
I walk along the creaking boards, and I whisper at the raging wind. But the wind does not stop. So, I chase my fears in circles and go around again. If I was somewhere else, then I would find the calm. If I was in a different life, then I would have sweet peace. And others tell me how to live, and they scream how I should think. Contemplation is my only friend. So, this is me. I’m crying out. Though I know—I surely know, I cry and refuse to be heard. I muffle the sound of anguished tears, and turn my back to Him. Continue reading “To the Secluded Heart”
I am excited about this part of the story, and I know it must be written. Because, this part of the story shouts to the sky of God’s mighty power, His glory, and His unending love for me. This part of the story will still amaze me when I’m old and gray. This part of the story is more joyful than I could have ever imagined. This part of the story has become a resting place in my valley of pain.
Since last summer, my health has steadily become worse. The days of constant pain were far greater than those in my senior year. Living every day became the hardest thing for me to do. My body was tired, and my heart worn.
There were days that I was overwhelmingly frustrated, and sometimes very sad. Every couple of weeks, I would be sick with something, because my immune system was weak. I would be over the trash can throwing up, unresponsive with a migraine that took me out of life for 24 hours, or just stuck in bed because my body was unable to function well. I spent the year in and out of sickness along with the never-ending presence of chronic pain. Continue reading “This Is Vulnerable: Part 2”
I am overwhelmed by the goodness and care of my God. Words will never express Him, but they will exalt Him. I wish to exalt Him through this journal. Why would my God care about me this much? How can He love me so much to give me pain, to give me hope, heartache, yet relief? How can He love me so fully, so richly? I fail Him every day. I turn away and must have His hand lead me back. I cannot breathe without him and yet I try to live without Him. Overwhelmed by His goodness, but often so forgetful of His ultimate sacrifice for me (For me!). He is good ,and yet I doubt Him. I am the wandering sheep–unsatisfied, distrustful, confused. But then, God in His overwhelming love and power shows me once again who He is. All-powerful. All-knowing. All-loving. All. Continue reading “This Is My God”
Possibility. So many emotions can be wrapped up in that single word. Possibility. And that’s what it was for me, the possibility of a serious health issue. I cannot even explain the nights that I laid awake with all of these possibilities running through my head, sometimes begging God to let me see another day. The fear was so real. The fear of not enough time. The realization that my life could change…forever.
I had so many tears, because I did not know what was happening in my body. I didn’t understand the pain, the unusual sharpness that would come and go as it pleased. So the unanswered questions filled me with fear. I realized around age 15 that I may not make it to adulthood. None of us have the guarantee of making it to adulthood, and for the first time I realized it. So, I sat there with my journal and I honestly and truly just wanted to give up. And for a little while, I shelved my dreams and goals.
I may not make it to adulthood. I may have cancer. This may be a brain tumor. This could actually happen to me. I remember the day that my mom and I talked about the very real chance that I could have a brain tumor. My breath was stolen somewhere between the possibility of a brain tumor and the reality that my mom and I were actually having this conversation. It was real. It was never right for me to worry. It was never right for me to fear, but the realization that this could be serious began to change the way I lived. Continue reading “This Is Vulnerable: Part 1”