1/2014

2014

January

Kai turned eight yesterday. 

"...The angel of the Lord found Hagar beside a desert spring along the road...Return...the Lord has heard about your misery."

"Therefore after Hagar referred to the Lord, who had spoken to her, as El-roi (the God who sees me) for she said, 'I have seen the One who sees me!'"

Will I allow You to? I'm jaded. I flaunt. I'm free and I'm giddy with freedom. I'm going back to Texas. I'm leaving this - island - for the humid stale big city.

'It takes so long to get places.'

"So don't worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will bring its own worries. Today's trouble is enough for today." Matthew 6:34

But I do worry about not having enough money. Just scraping by. We just scrape by. 

"Stop judging others, and you will not be judged...Do for others what you would like them to do for you." Matthew 7:1, 12

I judge. I judge often. I dislike those who offend me. I'm so consumingly critical. But I've had to be. My cynicism has kept me afloat. I criticize because I have to keep a tally of what's real and isn't. In being wise to let go of the mold, am I being careless? Structure and faith kept me in compliance; now freedom, thought, self-discovery, move me to move. Gonna move out and on and, someday, up. 

2013 is over.

I'll love my kids.

I've been delaying feeling something. Even now I pick at my nails and focus on that instead of writing. I'm realizing that there are those in my life who add nothing to it- just stress. 

I got my first thumb wrinkles last week- like Granny's. 

Jesus loves me - the Bible tells me so. 

    I'm loved. I'm loved. I'm loved.

Jesus completes me - I'm filled, resolved, not lacking.

   Jesus has made me a new creation. 

Old things have passed away.
    All things have passed away. 

You give me the desires of my heart. You put them there. 

To want 'just normal' feels dirty.

Remind me of how to love without holding anything back. Immaturely. Embarrassingly. 

"The Lord replies, 'I have seen violence done to the helpless, and I have heard the groans of the poor. Now I will rise up to rescue them, as they have longed for me to do.' The Lord's promises are pure, like silver refined in a furnace, purified seven times over." Psalms 12:5-6

Make me long for You to rescue me. Right now I must have that longing. I'm going into this with the support of family and close friends only. No church first. My legalistic training tells me this is wrong. My intelligence tells me this is freedom. Normal. Normal to live without boundaries. But I know that my growth process, my movement, is far from over. I have to love like You. But I can't fix my heart. I can't heal all the years of abandonment. You can. You can make me into a whole person; or show me that I already am one as long as I am in You and You in me. The older I get the less I know. 

  

Abandonment breeds unease. Resentment. Panic. Low self esteem.

I have forgotten You complete me. I have relaxed my grip on You and Your perfecting perfect love. I have searched myself and scrutinized myself until nothing isn't revealed, at least for now. But to let You back in?!!! To let You heal me?! To let You be You?! Can I just please be sure of one thing? Can my longing be put on the back burner to Your loving-kindness? Can I accept myself and that You love me? All of my shattered conceptions of the church and religion need You to fill in the brokenness. Yes, just You. Before I get too far away. 

And we're leaving Kansas. And I couldn't be happier. 

Abandonment breeds dependency.

Breaking the destructive cycle of dependency is chaos before it is freedom.

Being unparented is chaos. That chaos returns when that dependency starts to be broken. 

So I gave the church authority over me in valuing their approval above Jesus' and my own. 

Why it's so hard to just accept who He says I am in Him and how He says He loves me.

If I'm rejected by one, I'm rejected by all.

But that's not how You value.

In giving away my value I open myself up to panic.

I'm not rejected any more.

"But I trust in Your unfailing love. I will rejoice because You have rescued me. I will sing to the Lord because He has been so good to me." Psalm 13:5-6

You stay the same through the ages. 
    Your love never changes. 
There may be pain in the night, 
    but joy comes in the morning. 
And when the oceans rage, 
    I don't have to be afraid. 
Because I know that You love me, 
    And Your love never fails.

Every little thing gonna be alright.

Maybe it would be a wonderful thing to move back into that neighborhood…

Remember all the comforts you lacked? -painfully so

That’s how you are equipped to love. -help me with my disbelief. I doubt every solid thing in my body.

Here we are good. Growing up slowly with plenty of tales. Pen still moving passionately against empty paper lines.

What’s life gonna look like from here on out? What are You gonna look like from here on out? My inner battles. Will You conquer me? Conquer me to defeat me and release me?

Just know you’re not alone.

These five. These five precious ones. Where my heart is. Where my investment is. Principally. Wonderfully. Amazingly.

Help me to be still. Quiet my soul.

Every little thing gonna be alright.

I'm always afraid to write on first pages. Always wanting to skip it and come back to it later when there’s a better thought to share. Red gave me this pen and journal for Christmas.

Lawrence has been a time of self-discovery. A time of becoming a singular family. Of new birth and stumbling and relearning to think. I think. I feel. I stumble. I fall. I get angry. I stay angry. You prevail. You reimagine my faults to Your glory. You reshape my jiggle to put faith to feet. Lawrence was my escape from a cultish mindset I created within myself. For myself. I don't think it’s right to be so self-serving. I don't think it’s right to sacrifice so much to bless the blessed. I thought that way a long, long time ago. But now I feel it in my bones with conviction.

I may not be completely healed from the havoc wreaked on my infantile family, but I see direction toward it. Maybe now I understand a bit. A bit to make it better. Make it better to put faith to feet. All the pent up-ness, put it to use. Challenge my challenged self to be out of the box and used to be useful. To be (cheesy) Your hands and feet. How can I be Your light if all I do is be enlightened with the enlightened? This is better. This is good. This is my itch being scratched. Yes. And I'll read Interrupted again and see again what’s for me. Get my thoughts together and questions and ask. I’ll ask and dig deeper. I’ll ask and get answers and know that there’s a growing light, apparently, that I'll join and not be a radical among radicals with empty zeal, but a tempered vehicle to be used to overflowing.

“Will You not revive us again? That Your people may rejoice in You? Show us Your mercy, Lord, and grant us Your salvation. I will hear what the Lord will speak, for He will speak peace to His people and to His saints; but let them not turn back to folly. Surely His salvation is near to those who fear Him that glory may dwell in our land. Mercy and truth have met together; righteousness and peace have kissed. Truth shall spring out of the earth, and righteousness shall look down from heaven. Yes, the Lord will give what is good; and our land will yield its’ increase. Righteousness will go before Him, and shall make His footsteps our pathway.” Psalm 85:6-13

Somewhere in there is the answer to my fear. To my self-doubt. It’s there. So what’s obviously seen there in my bleeding heart? Pain? The bleeding? The hurt? Fear. Deep founded fear. Fear rooted in every scary thing that’s ever happened to me. A scaredy cat. But a deeply caring one. Concerned with being genuine and also guarded against further injury. Strong.

You are strong for being who you are despite all that you've lived through. Mercy and truth. No judgment. No punishment for you, Denise. No joke. In all seriousness, I've got you covered. In MY righteousness, a soft electrifying kiss of peace.

That stillness. That which surpasses all understanding. Everywhere. Truth springing up from the ground and righteousness looking down on me. As You give what is good. The land, my land. My heart. My soul. It yields its increase. You. Mercy, truth, peace, righteousness. It yields You. My depths are yielding You. Despite my irrational logic. You are coming out. Despite my bleeding heart. You are springing forth. Therein lies my boldness. The ability to stand on firm ground and allow my words to be spoken to be heard. That glorious freedom that I am not my own but was bought at a price. I am not my own, but am a pearl of great price. You sold everything to own me. Radical churnings of my heart aren't hidden away sins against You, against humanity, but rather, You pouring out revealing Yourself hidden there tucked away in all those years of blindly tucking away Biblical devotions, studies, quiet times. You speak directly, profoundly. Loudly at times. Because. Because I am Yours. My small bleeding heart is the fertile ground of the parable of the soils. And out of Your tireless efforts You are calling out the dead seeds to spring forth life. The life abundant to love. Abundant to move. To lead. To step into Your footsteps because You step before me. You are my pathway. My deep rooted desire to please You is an open door to your movement in my life. Despite me! Despite my blindness. Despite my stubbornness. Despite my temper. Oh, my temper!!!

No, Denise, it’s not just others who are blessed to be handcrafted. You were painstakingly created. This tiny you is a product of a perfect Creator. In His image you were made. Not an image of fear and self-loathing, but of bold righteousness to love despite obvious rejection. No matter the response. Radical creator or radical things.

I’ve nothing to fear.

Thankfulness breeds contentment. Contempt of self breeds isolation in bitter mistrust.

No, Denise. The blessed life isn't reserved for ‘the Others.’ You are a dear beloved ‘Other!’ A member of the elite creation able to stand toe to toe to insurmountable foe not for vain glory, but eternal purpose. Rejoice! Again I say rejoice! And let your gentleness be known for the Lord is at hand. Therein lies your peace. Therein lies your validity. Therein is your access card to the elite society of value. You are loved. You are loved. You are loved. These bleeding wounds bleed this righteous truth. This intangible peace. Accessible by faith poured out on the cross. Tiny heart of infinite value chosen to be loved and healed and respected by Masterful Craftsman eternal.

To be bold to be enough to be myself. Painstakingly, priceless, mighty me.

-but oh, to live that!

Someday it will resolve. Someday it will get better. Some imagined moment when all the stars align to bless us one with spontaneous combustion. Then all will be well. All is well in the someday imagined. Meanwhile we pine. I pine. With you all is well.

The little children brought to Jesus. Little tiny holding up a broom singing to Jesus how much she loved Him. Placing her hand over the televangelists to pray accept Christ. Precious.

Did she hate me? That was what I saw in her eyes that middle of the night. Hate. Contempt. She despised me that night. For complaining. For nagging. Trying to get her to stop drinking and go to bed. She hated me for telling her what the right thing to do was. She shamed me. Rejected me then. Broke my self-esteem in one fell swoop. Never recovered. No, I never did.

“Don’t stop the children. No, let them come to Me. For such is the kingdom of heaven.”

Would you get over it already! Years!!! It’s been years!

Then you don’t, can’t, understand this feeling- the experience of being cursed by safe haven-creator-all-powerful-source-of-life-nurturer-mother. Turned from beautiful love serenity into confusing battlefield. Minefield! She was never safe again. No, never.

But I got to You.

“But among you it should be quite different. Whoever wants to be a leader among you must also be your servant. And whoever wants to be first must become your slave. For even I, the Son of Man, came here not to be served, but to serve others, and to give my life as a ransom for many.” Matthew 20:26-28

Serve others. Serve others and don't get angry. Serve others and don't get angry and love them. Serve others and don't get angry and respect them. Respect their motives. Respect their desires. Respect their boundaries. Respect their preferences. Respect their limitations. Respect their gifts. Respect their wishes. Searching out motive is a form of control. Because if I know what makes you tick I can set off your hot spots and reopen wounds not yet closed.

Like a problem or a work in progress. Every small piece of me I give to her she fails to know what to do with. Maybe she panics even.

Why have coffee past seven? Because it makes you crazy.

Because if I said all the things that there seem to be going on in my heart at any given time, I'd always be in tears. Because I think and think and think on my thoughts and why I think certain things and how and why certain things effect me and I think until my mind is racing. But sometimes it stops. Sometimes there are brief moments of clarity and I think that there is a purpose to all of the thinking.
Something about loving everyone.
Something about being open to everyone.
Something about being honest about my faults.
Something about being gracious with myself and my apparent special needs.
Something about not being quiet about the unique way I work.
About not being ashamed.
Something about that light flickering inside me.
Something about the big thing that is happening from the outside of the now institutionalized church.
Something about taking away its' glory.
Something about the hostility it breeds when it fails to meet the physical needs of the needy.
The emotional needs of the cast outs.
Something about the fault of ignoring the arts.
Something about love.
Something about honesty.
Something about the travesty that is being a beacon of light and a pillar of righteousness when one is a leader in the church.
Something about being above the falling.
Something about ignoring the frailty of the faulty human chosen to have His loved poured out in a clay vessel.
Something about failing to be quiet to listen.
To Him.
To others.
Something about respect.
Something about the failure of stewardship over this place we live.
Something about quiet.
Something about being broken for others.
Something about me not being able to be broken for others.
Something about being light.
Something about regaining the freedom once again that He gave so lavishly through the cross.
Something about something bigger than the smallness of one persons' vision.
Something about being so very human.
Something about respecting the writings of other very human humans.
Something about finding myself.
And finding that I am small.
Finding that I am silly.
So so silly.
Some thinking on the things men and women in power ignorantly spoke to quench who my small little me was.
Some thinking on the poison I spewed on others when I refused to think for myself.
Thinking on the irony of education and my lack.
Thinking on quiet.
The failed art of conversation.
The failed beauty of sitting alone.
Of listening for still small voice.
Of the travesty of strain man's vision can place on sacrament of marriage.
On the bullheaded foolishness loneliness sins to.
On how I have limits in my humanity.
On how the past is alive all at once with the present all too often in my reminiscences.
On how a perfect life, perfect marriage, perfect wisdom don't exist.
They are lies.
On contentment without bitterness.
And the peace through patience.
Something about being honest creating a usable clay vessel.
Vessel to be filled to be used, cracked, and broken and usedcrackedandbroken.
Broken often.
Often to be sorry and to wrought change.
Honesty the conduit to change.
Changing struggles to honesty to freedom from poison laced truth.
That I'd not be a poison.
That I'd not be a wall.
That I'd not be a soldier, but a listener and lover.
A talker only respectfully, but on the page as free bold vagabond.
On page fighting past fear.
On page free to free boisterous and please-be-quiet-you-talk-too-much carefree silly child again free again thinking in quiet me.
If only in incomplete fleeting doughy in the middle not finished hot dishes of fragments of thoughts.

thump say speak. I speak, says the one. mini-mex muse revealing tex-mex itty bitty one.

making the change
breaking away
friend, my fear
so near
push away all hope of smiles
all the promise of the not yet known
and what we don't know
don't know what the repercussions will be
just we'll wait and see
and the yelling and they get so mad
wonder where they get that from
and the love that's so deep they weep and weep
their joy overflows into crinkled eyes
the joy of the ice cream man's jingle
the mad rush for the money hard earned
just a vacation
just a vacation
for the rest of their childhood


dear friend eclipsed by sweet smiling eyes



never going back to the semi-cultish house of worship contained in the sacrifice of the few for themselves
-careful not to offend the little
but their thing is offensive to me
offensive to that thick book I still thickly read
and all of those platitudes
those commandments we all sometimes dread
and read
and read
and read
magic thick book spoke life once upon a time
spoke direction in the truth it yelled at me
the message it taught to me
then the shifting of the meaning and the shadow of the one man's vision and his calling
and breaking away
though years have past
is still thickly stuck to the small hairs
is still twisted captor seeking to please that one man's vision
vision
singing be thou my vision
and raising ebenezer
and the last of the last and the fallen in the past
and then there is all of the sentimentality of the teenage youth group hanging on to me and pulling me deeper into the man's vision and the truth wrapped up in the warped and the managing of all of the hurt and the pain and the hurt and the fighting with the mom-child and the wanting to be better
to be better at the thick book reading
the thick book studying
and the long simple prayers admired-er
off to the oasis in the desert to sit and reflect and dig deeper and deeper
and there was refuge there
and there was calm there
and there was camaraderie there
and mission there
and understanding there

but past the busted hopes of being a part of magical all-is-virtuous-of-this-vision-most-magical
flat topper wasn't key to living out thick book
thick book
and churchy organism took
and took
and took

and readjusted sad smiles fell swiftly through the cracks
and meetings turned to meaning
and holding onto sacred life
when talking and listening was of the utmost importance
and though it always felt like the faith was out of reach, same struggled smiles held my smallness close in
and it grew
and it grew
and the laughter healed the misunderstood mismanaged healing mexi-mini me
and they held me up and I helped them up
then I left
I left
to alone and aloof and the pretty blooming trees
to box house living and just the one red friend

and I thrived
and thrived
and guiltily thrived
what of when questions breed more questions
and searching into that mini-mex proves unending
and the secular bad'man institution was a refuge to breathe
sanity in smiling faces
normalcy to pour into semi-cultish slash wounds
and of the three little ones who are thriving
and smiling
and smiling
and smiling
and of the tiny one born in the away place
the alone place
the lone red hand to hold in forceful agony
that victorious calm
to see tiny face held in swollen arms
mexi-tiny strength displayed
that questions unanswered and pains inexplicable
could maybe
not be the keeping to be tiny
the odd fitting could possibly be that perfect fitting smallish one to smile crinkle eyes alight
and tapping keys on cheap keyboard could be key to tapping small tex-mex perspective
that perplexive
long time in coming
tapped out voice
in conclusion of
those years in mom-child's care
those years in semi-cultish incompatibility
those years with the lone red sounding board
confusing one sided long thought out perspective
voiced perspective

old friend fear of rejection
push the publish
push the publish

quiet palpitating beat of the heart

quiet

for to listen to the rejection and the criticism of those thoughts and the things that they will question when to me they seem so plain and the talk of the past and the pressure that it breeds
that the satisfaction of this fallen one will be clean
and clean
and clean
and clean

because you were always mean
because you were always different
you were always just a little bit off
but that little one
that quiet face
you don't have a quiet voice, now do you

share the thing
share the thing

still your self
settle in
and the open
and the vulnerable
begets being heard
that in fear

that those impressions that wrecked small frame could soothe those stinging
in a smallish way

share and no

scared for the sympathy
sad empathy

Domingo sin refugio

How often do we make us do?
How often do we move ourselves when we just want to sit?
When there's no will to get up and go?
When inevitable is a cold awkward fish bowl.
When the thought of ensuing chitter chatter makes stomach ache and eyes blink and pits to sweat.
How many others suffer in silence?
The suffering of awkwardness.
A luxury, I'm sure.
Fifteen years ago Sabbaths lost their rest.
From sleeping in MTV surfing to small talk, snotty noses and see you next week strangers' hugs.
I'd rather...
Not have to think on it.
Not have to dread it.
Not have to make self to move.
If it looked like...
Others preferred over the self.
Scincere concern for next week stranger.
A refuge from all week's small things.

Maybe it could be an extension of sweet walk in riches.

Worry, Apprehension, Anxiety, and Faith

 How much is actually under our control? Job had life happen to him. He couldn't control the tragedies that took his family, fortune and health away.

		"Now there was a day when his sons and daughters were eating and drinking wine in their oldest brother's house; and a messenger came to Job and said, "The oxen were plowing and the donkeys feeding beside them,
		"when the Sabeans raided them and took them away—indeed they have killed the servants with the edge of the sword; and I alone have escaped to tell you!"
		While he was still speaking, another also came and said, "The fire of God fell from heaven and burned up the sheep and the servants, and consumed them; and I alone have escaped to tell you!"
		While he was still speaking, another also came and said, "The Chaldeans formed three bands, raided the camels and took them away, yes, and killed the servants with the edge of the sword; and I alone have escaped to tell you!"
		While he was still speaking, another also came and said, "Your sons and daughters were eating and drinking wine in their oldest brother's house,
		"and suddenly a great wind came from across the wilderness and struck the four corners of the house, and it fell on the young people, and they are dead; and I alone have escaped to tell you!"" Job 1:13-19 (NKJV)

As Job sat at home messengers ran to him bringing bad news times three. I imagine Job's heart growing faint, beads of sweat covering his brow, his palms clammy and sweaty as the second messenger opened his mouth to share even more bad news. By the time the third messenger came with his story to report, Job would've wanted to wake up from a horrible nightmare. Last year was a nightmare. (It has now been years since this post was started. Not sure how many years, but at least two.)
It began with me in a dark, thick, debilitating depression. A cloud over my mind and heart that held me under. I fought with my emotions, or lack thereof, to somewhat function. I became a machine. I produced dinners, swept floors, wiped runny noses and played house with my husband. But my mind was lost and cloudy. I couldn't hold back tears at all hours of the day. I couldn't laugh or smile at the irony of everyday life as I love to do. I didn't feel trapped, I was trapped. And the cage, the hole, the cloud draped over me grew thicker, heavier and darker. I couldn't see any hope. No hope. Without hope I took matters in my own hands. 
At the crisis center they called it a trial run. The crisis center where the first small pink pills were administered under watchful eye. The morning that day began as any other. I was left alone with my younger children. In my bedroom I did it, the children busy in another part of our shabby mobile home playing with who knows what. They missed it. They didn't see anything, but me walking around the house later sobbing as I went on with my chores. I had called my husband and told him he needed to be home with me and he came. I still babysat as I did every Thursday at the time. Then I called for help. Help came and escorted me to the crisis center. I got help.
My trial run led to a regimen of medication everyday ad infinitim. Incremental increases of sweet relief  More and more it took to balance out the bad bad imbalance of chemicals, emotions, feelings, loss, hopelessness. And consume willingly and hungrily I did. Hungry for my cure. Hungry for my humanity in the sea of dying to self I was surrounded in. I had bought into it. Those lies shouted so loudly by the sheep. Those lies told to me and others of the weak faith; of those with mental illness. Weak faith of those on antidepressants. That was me. Vocal about my 'healing.' Vocal about my liberation from the weak pills that enslaved. What use is salvation? The baptism of the Holy Spirit? The life lived in holiness, refraining from sin? What good is the witness to those lost souls? Will the salvation preached liberate the enslaved mind? Will the prayer moving away from dependence on men move to depend on faith to heal? Faith to feel? Faith to motivate? Validate? All that it should. All that it should to make a broken soul whole. 
But those lies mixed in with the truth. Those lies mixed in with the love. Saying o how we love you. O how we are so proud of you. But they lie. They disapprove. They grow much faster. They love much purer. They are the better. They push the small to their place of smallness. 
Go get a band aid if you must, but a band aid you'll have until you truly give ALL of your little self to The Lord. Push to make little of my smallness. Not enough, dear one. Not enough, little sheep. Not enough prayer time. Not enough submission to husband. Not enough holiness. Not enough smiles. Not enough worship music. Not enough cleaning. Not enough doing of good for the church. The church. The self sustaining organism. Sustained on the sacrifices of the few. The sacrifices of the few to feed, nourish, protect, teach, isolate, cater to, the holier than the rest. The holier than the most. The holier because of the poverty. The holier because of the dependence on the food stamps. The medicaid. The generosity of others. Never say no to your children when they ask of you. But how to do such a thing when there is no means? No means to save. No means to give more than the sacrifice of the all. All the life. The sacrifice of all the life for the catering to the few. Say yes to your kids and push away the outside world of the many. Say to the outside world that this sacrificial life of poverty is the one they should envy. Desire. You wanna live this life? Run away. Run away fast. Hard. Push away from the circles of unreason.  The justifying of the feeding of the ever consuming organism. It can't help the many. It can't reach the physically hurting. Can't do the true work of the church for the feeding of itself. But the depression.
The depression that starved. The depression that wore down to suicide. Suicide when there is no other option to the life un lived around me. That life that was full of life and creating life and nourishing life without life being breathed into the small me. Imagine the lonliness of there being no escape. No escape from the confines of what should be called life. When life is the elusive one. When life is your enemy. When life is a lonely place where the should be whispers of reassurance are demands for holiness. Demands for more sacrifice. Times in prayer. In the Word. Stopping living to escape the not getting better non living. 
O naive Christian. Misunderstood. No amount of prayer, servitude, submission, faith could pull one so ill as me from the depths of sticky depression fingers. Your cure found not in a stronger belief, but in a greater  a greater faith in the knowledge and wisdom of men. Contradictory? No, wise. Wise to succumb to the wisdom of medicine. Of thousands of years or study. Of medication that is a miracle healing. Though a healing brought on patiently through months of inactivity. Months of it not working. Months of strange adjustments and fatigue and thirst and who knows what else. Sacrifice. I sacrificed my save face for free thinking  for free feeling and emotion and happiness. The ability to feel these things and not just act them out. Act them out like I had learned to do. 
My remedy, sweet remedy, remorse over the years I denied myself my healing in those tiny pills. That exhaustion. That work. That exclusion. Oh, the strange things I said and did in the name of a faith that betrayed me. Trade in the tainted for the pure. That religiosity for the depth of truth He brings. 
As I said loved my Savior, it was the acceptance of the people I longed to love. If I loved them by living the life they said was best for me then surely I'd get better, right? Surely the more I pleased them the more my life would reflect the love being poured into me. The life that they said would happen.
It was a cage. It was a chain. It was a prison.
Resolved. Resolved, but unsettling tale to tell. Unsettling. Upsetting. Scary. Sad. Not years wasted, but years in refinement to think as a thinker free of trained thoughts thinks. In thinking as a thinker thus free to worship as a freeman. A free woman. A loosed from bonds thinker. A truth worshiper in truth. Dictated holiness never for the better than to judge. 
O, but the self incriminating self ever ready to pull down and pull apart the accomplishments of the self.
yes, the me .
The built on years of mental battles with mental self. Would you be so free? Would you be so free to tell of the loss and the sacrifice? Stand on the ground that is solid and solid your feet and stable you'll be in the eyes of the Important. Disregarding the all important eyes.

2 states away

I just had one of those juicy burps that leaves your throat burning and mouth tasting like bile. Nasty. My house is very quiet. The kids are in bed. No pets to wander the house. Just me. Me and Quiet. I love my Me and Quiet time. Me and Quiet time refreshes me. It gives me processing time. Six months ago most of my processing time was spent at my best friends' house talking out all the strange thoughts of my mind and goings on in my life. I confided in her for redirection when irrational fears kept me in dark hiding places, frozen in place. My dark hiding places aren't so hard to find now. I have them now not by choice, but here they are nonetheless. Irrational fears are here too. Have they kept me home these 10 adult years, or has that been the will of a Sovereign Deity? Was it a brave and courageous thing to move two states away, or am I a stronger version of my frail little girl self? Frail little girl self. Fourth child carrying little scared child. Is it everyone that freezes when faced with their frailty? Is it easier for others to realize their redeemed selves in the power of the cross? Does mercy flow easily from the mouths of others? Is my negativity a pariah? Is it conquerable? Is there a purpose other than 'I'm here' that eludes me? The reconciliation that was brought to humanity via the rugged, barbaric cross, that salvation and reconciliation, is it easier for others to wear as their armor? What hasn't He fixed in order to stare so long? Is my faith what's lacking? Perhaps I should be able to conjure up the mighty faith of Abraham to walk into the unknown unafraid. Weak little Christian girl. Christ's redeemed pearl of great price.