I've been here before; the pervading feeling of death that weighs down my senses against each movement they attempt. The blades of a barbwire that aren't quite tied around my heart just yet, but their edges tease the tightness of sorrow that will tear it all apart. A prospective constriction, if you will; The looming possibility of heartbreak lurking on the verge of actuality. Funny, isn't it? One could be on either extreme skepticism or hope, both cases with the underlying fear of sorrow; one is a self-affirmation theory that takes comfort in thinking, "I saw that coming," and the other denies the possibility altogether.
Some hold on with every ounce of their energy to keep the possibility of heartbreak from actuality, and others push to give birth to it in hopes of relief from the anxiety of possibility. Then there's a third, one that stands in paralysis before the pathways ahead. Fearful of what may come to be, he stands frozen with transience as his only hope, that this, too, shall pass. Within each is a fear of life and its endless possibilities. Within each is an endless chasm between oneself and God. Within me is each of them with heavy weights pulling me down.
Against my instinct and will, I pushed myself to church today. Against everything that my senses could feel and everything that my senses couldn't, I praised God today. With deadened cells surrounded by dancing people, the heaviness behind my eyes only increased in weight, yet I kept on calling out to God. Fix your eyes on Jesus, as Pastor Clarance would say. I surrender my senses to live through God's will, and gradually, there is movement in my body as my senses are taken to a path in a desert on which I have fallen.
My tears had coagulated through the sand under my face as the grains gritted against my teeth while I sobbed. He was seated beside me, in presence with my sorrow as I called for him through my failing senses. "I'm right here whenever you are ready," he soothingly said in acknowledgment of my sorrow and with confidence that I'll move by his Spirit, not by might nor by power. The music permeated my being as my feet started moving with my hips, arms, and shoulders. Though physically dancing, I felt the steps ethereally, and in this realm where the path lies, I had gotten up on my feet.
With the first attempt at a step, I had fallen again, and I felt his arms gradually pulling me back up. "Slow and steady; I'm right here with you," and so I tried again, limping, walking with wounds of sorrow. Limping turned to walking, walking turned to dancing, and dancing turned to healing. This path has revealed that he is the greatest source of joy and comfort, for a heart anchored elsewhere is faced with the imminence of death rather than the immanence of life. How terrifying it is to deny oneself and not be of this world so that one would be of the Father.
"For I, the LORD your God, will hold your right hand, Saying to you, 'Fear not, I will help you,'"
¬ Isaiah 41:13
Though I am dipped into an abyss where my senses are lost, I trust that my right hand is held by the writer of my story. So, I take the quill out of his divine ink box, trusting that he will guide my hand to trace the words that he has written. He gives, and he takes away. My heart breaks; he mends it, I learn, and it breaks again, so he mends it again, and so I learn again. With each time he mends me, I grow closer to him and mature in his Son. As downcast as I may be, as sleepless as my nights may be, I praise he who had set eternity in my heart, with absolute trust in his protection and the songs of deliverance he continues to surround me by.
I've been here before; the pervading feeling of death that weighs down my senses against each movement they attempts. The blades of a barbwire that aren't quite tied around my heart just yet, but their edges tease the tightness of sorrow that will tear it all apart. I am here now in the same very place, with a different face, one empowered by Christ. I fall into the sunken place, knowing that I am not alone and that with me is a God who holds my right hand. I put in the works with faith that I shall emerge victorious, that I am already victorious, for the victory has been achieved in the eternity that is clothed in the temporal.
Wounds (5 April)
When wounds run deeply,
I fill them with words
of philosophy
to piece all the shards
of my broken self.
-
Tell me, Kierkegaard;
Why does life get hard?
Why's my mind apart?
What's tearing my heart?
Where should my thoughts start?
-
Tell me, Alan Watts;
what's with hide and seek?
If there's God within,
what hides him from me?
-
God, see how I bleed.
Watch how my mind leaks.
Look how my heart breaks.
Witness my soul wane.
Where is your Spirit?
-
I call out for it,
yet I hear silence.
I lost your essence,
so I called for Christ.
He gave me a cross.
-
He said, "Carry it
and deny yourself
so you follow me."
He promised me rest,
if I am burdened.
-
His heart is humble
and his yoke is light.
I carried my cross
to a waterfall
and read Kierkegaard
to find Jesus Christ.
Blood (9 April)
I see blood slowly seep
from fingers torn by teeth.
What’s under these fingers
through the skin that I peel?
-
What is it exactly
that needs to be released?
How can I find my peace
by biting till I bleed?
-
How can I find safety
by tearing my body?
I call for somebody,
but my sound’s unsteady.
-
My vocal chords fail me.
My thoughts have all left me.
My focus is shaken.
My being is breaking.
-
I call for my savior.
Save me from this winter.
Please clothe me in your blood.
Take me beyond this flesh
in which my soul’s enmeshed
-
Though there is suffering,
I am persevering
to build my character
and find my hope in Christ.