thunderstorms calm my soul, but this monotonous, aching rain…
it somehow disquiets it….
thrashes its’ drops onto my raw heart in a painfully tedious strumming of brokenness.
there’s an old record on, and it’s scratching, which is kind of comforting in a weird sort of way.
I guess because it keeps on playing… the scratches mar it, but that melody I know, that’s so familiar, can’t be drowned out completely… can’t be scratched away…
J tells me I should drink more water.
I don’t really feel like eating that prepared salad in the fridge.
I have two discouraging things left on my to-do list.
I guess I’m kind of a broken record.
and it’s really damn hard to look at the things I write and really ingest them, while I’m in the swell of an anxiety-wave or when people attack nonsensically or when physical pain slams into me like a bus hitting my spine or when discouragement drives me hard against the floor.
when I’m not sure what I did wrong.
when I feel totally useless.
when I can’t feel the presence of the Spirit and fall empty.
and I fight so hard against the swell, and I hold J’s cold hand and think “at least I can keep his hands warm. I can do that.”
and for that minute, I’ve got a usefulness, so I hold on hard…
I cling to that substantial, practical worth until I’m strong enough to find something bigger.
I blow out candles and tentatively wonder… what’s going to change? what’s going to be different?
and life just isn’t what I thought it was…
and I’m not really who I thought I was…
and I feel like this
these days don’t come nearly as often as they used to, but they still come...
they come strong as hell, because that’s what it is… that’s what’s battering against the gate of my heart.
the only way to fight hell is to fight like heaven.
so I grip his cold hand, and I storm heaven to storm hell.
and I pray, that like that dear woman in the gospels, that I could just touch the hem of Jesus’ clothes… that I could be healed…
but I’m not.
this wound… thorn… brokenness…
and I don’t know why.
but I breathe in the Spirit, breathe in grace… and I breathe out slow, slow sanctification, breathe out hope.
I take those deep breaths of perseverance, and trust that I’m gaining that character, trust that I’m building a crown of hope…
though I can’t feel it.
can’t see it.
I reach for aid and find empty air.
but you’re raising the dead in me.
I’m not copping out.
I grasp for comfort and warm a cold hand.