I keep telling myself that maybe I’ll do this thing again one of these days. I’ve always loved writing. It’s kind of like painting a self portrait with words.
But then along came THAT day, and words left me. I was a quivering broken mass on the living room floor, unsure of which end was up, what was true, who I could trust. I thought I had known it all, but as it turned out...I knew nothing.
I had to all start again from square one. There were no instructions. There was no road map. There were no guarantees. Just building blocks while someone else kicked them down over and over again. Just digging out a hole while someone kept piling more dirt in. Just trying to heal a wound while someone kept ripping open the scab. Square one. Again and again.
Will I ever forget that suffocating pain? Will I ever get past the dark loneliness that engulfed me? The hopeless helplessness of not knowing truth, of realizing much of my life and what I had counted on were in fact lies and deception. I had been a fool. A rejected and despised fool. Anger. Agony. Betrayal. Death. I experienced it all. Again and again.
If that were all of the story, it would be really a crappy read. What I found was the glimmer of light in the darkness, the tiny shoot of growth in the burned field. What I was shown was a different perspective, a different way of thinking. My nose was rubbed in the dark facts of the circumstances surrounding me, but God had a deeper truth for me to see. Facts are not always truth. Truth is not always easy to see, especially when your heart is wounded and you’re blinded by grief.
The truth? What was meant for destruction and death actually became a rebirth. What had seemingly been broken beyond repair still had this tiny sliver of life holding the two pieces together. Impossible life surrounded by certain death. But it was there.
The deepest truth? God was there. In the midst of the rubble. In the darkness of night. Whispering His
love to me, asking me to trust Him, promising to teach me and guide me in each step of the uncertain journey ahead. His hands were that of a surgeon, cutting out the poison that threatened to kill me, bringing healing to a damaged soul, life to a walking dead. Daily. Moment by moment. Repetition. Over and over. Again and again.
That became enough.
But then along came THAT day, and words left me. I was a quivering broken mass on the living room floor, unsure of which end was up, what was true, who I could trust. I thought I had known it all, but as it turned out...I knew nothing.
I had to all start again from square one. There were no instructions. There was no road map. There were no guarantees. Just building blocks while someone else kicked them down over and over again. Just digging out a hole while someone kept piling more dirt in. Just trying to heal a wound while someone kept ripping open the scab. Square one. Again and again.
If that were all of the story, it would be really a crappy read. What I found was the glimmer of light in the darkness, the tiny shoot of growth in the burned field. What I was shown was a different perspective, a different way of thinking. My nose was rubbed in the dark facts of the circumstances surrounding me, but God had a deeper truth for me to see. Facts are not always truth. Truth is not always easy to see, especially when your heart is wounded and you’re blinded by grief.
The truth? What was meant for destruction and death actually became a rebirth. What had seemingly been broken beyond repair still had this tiny sliver of life holding the two pieces together. Impossible life surrounded by certain death. But it was there.
The deepest truth? God was there. In the midst of the rubble. In the darkness of night. Whispering His
That became enough.
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