The Subtle Reminder

I see my parents everywhere, in the old married couple who need to remind themselves of the love they once had, in the young struggling lovers who are trying to make this thing called love work, and even in Tevye and Golde. I doubted love today. I am not sure I believe in it. Or if I do, it's not the true definition of love. I keep telling myself, "in the midst of all things, God is sovereign." I am clinging to this truth. I must cling to it. My mind is to tired now to ponder the nonsense it has created. I submit my soul to the soothing truth that is the love of Christ.

How He is Not Like You

You thought only about yourself.

My God thought about me before my birth.

You drew close to your selfish desires.

My God draws me closer to Him everyday.

You betrayed the one you love.

My God gave His only son for me.

You lied, again, and again, and again.

My God never changes.

You acted like everything was fine.

My God never deceives.

You hurt.

My God heals.

Thankful.

Isolation. No one wants to feel alone. I don't want to feel alone. Are you in the same situation? Similar? What are you feeling? 

When I read about what other people are dealing with, the amount of pain and confusion surrounding their every word, I became thankful. Thankful that wasn't me. Thankful I didn't have it worse. Details can make all the difference. Same but different. 

However, thankfulness is not an overwhelming feeling. It is something you have to hold on to. Other emotions threaten to flood my everything. 

Our soul waits for the LORD; he is our help and our shield. 

For our heart is glad in him, because we trust in his holy name. 

Let your steadfast love, O LORD, be upon us, even as we hope in you. 

Psalms 33:20-22

His Mercies Are New Every Morning

This morning is easier. No immediate reminder of the dark thoughts that laid on my mind the previous night. The darkness is still there, but it is slow in waking. 

I read about the difference between evangelism and witnessing. In this state I don't think I can do much of either. "How are you actively fulfilling your divine mandate to be a witness for Christ?" How can I right now? I keep praying, calling out, internally screaming: "Lord, my God, do not abandon me!" I pray for His peace that surpasses all understanding. I pray that the seeds of bitterness will not take hold. That I would be able to forgive. "I love them, and I forgive them. I love them, and I forgive them. I love them, and I forgive them." If I repeat it enough, maybe I will believe it. 

My mind keeps saying, "Ah! What are you? A child? You should be stronger than this, this should not bother you. Strong. Independent. That's you." But it is not. I am shallow. I am broken. I am hurt. I am grieving. I have not experienced this before. I do not know how it goes. All I can do is try to process my thoughts, I pray in a Godly way. So many thoughts, emotions. Anger, doubt, denial. Acknowledge a thought, let it go. I cling to the moments of peace. Again, I feel. "Why is this wrecking you? You are above this!" I am not above anything. But, I do not want to wallow. But, I do not want to face anything. I pray for strength, I pray for anything. "I am lost! Do not leave me to my own thoughts! Fill me with the Holy Spirit! I cling to your mercies and faithfulness!"

My God will not abandon me. My God will not forsake me. I cling to His promises.

Keep your life free from love of money, and be content with what you have, for he has said, "I will never leave you nor forsake you." Hebrews 13:5

The steadfast love of the LORD never ceases; his mercies never come to an end; 

They are new every morning; great is your faithfulness. 

"The LORD is my portion," says my soul, "therefore I will hope in him." 

Lamentations 3:22-24

Hurt.

I am not sure which is worse: dealing with hurt or not knowing how to deal with grief. Grief. Grieving. They say there are seven stages. "Which one am I in now?" I ask myself. How long will this go? But, I must be strong. The others are counting on me. I have things to do. Things to accomplish. I cannot be held down. Weighed down. Why is this such a burden. Can it not be over already? Why can't my mind be free? Why can't my heart be light? Light. That is what I hold on to most. He is faithful. He will not abandon me. HE WILL NOT ABANDON ME.

Tom

Once the day started, Eli could not ever remember why he was so afraid of it. Something about hours not yet lived instilled a sense of angst inside the darker corners of his mind. He shuffled his feet towards the cabinet. There were six mugs. Six separate pieces of ceramic, six separate stories, six containers. However, five were just ordinary. There was one scratched, cream clad potter's work which whispered distinct longings of use. That was Tom's mug. Eli had stole it from the town's diner. Tom was one of a band of starstruck boys who never could stay in one place for long. He could have been just a passerby, but Eli knows better. 

The bench was where they first met. If Eli had not wished so hard to forget the weight of the day, he might not ever have walked past the bench where Tom sat smoking the last of two cigarettes. He was a tall, lanky sort of fellow with a twinkle in his eye and a bushy head of hair tucked under a trucker hat. 

"I have one left," he said throwing an arm in Eli's direction. 

"Thanks, I don't smoke," replied Eli shrugging apologetically. 

"Sure ya do!" started Tom. "I hear this is the town where everyone smokes." 

Eli had no idea where Tom heard this falsehood, but the morning had already started calling to Eli, and he did not want to answer. 

"Not everybody," Eli grabbed the remaining cigarette. Tom held his hand out and lit up Eli's reluctant choice of stress relief. 

"Tom," he said. 

"Eli," replied his bench companion.

"Small towns never are what they seem," Tom smiled. He glanced at his watch and lifted his head toward the sky. His stream of smoke nearly covered the patch of sky reaching through the ominous street trees. 

Eli let the smoke fill up his lungs and blew it out. "Small towns will never tell you who they are," Eli's voice cracked. 

"How about the folks in them?" asked Tom. 

"Folks make up towns," Eli shot back with a raised eyebrow and an honest gaze. Tom clarified, "I mean, don't you have something to say about your town?" 

The nighttime chill set into Eli's knees as he inhaled his cigarette stronger. "This town doesn't know me, why would I have anything to say about it?" Eli sighed. 

"We all have something to say," Tom replied, "It may not seem worth saying because we aren't used to being listened to."

Eli took a deep breath and exhaled sharply. "Look mister, I appreciate the cigarette, but I'm not in the mood for conversation about me or about this town or anything." 

Tom inhaled one last time, then putting out his cigarette, he stared straight into Eli's eyes and said, "If you don't mind me saying, I think you need to talk more than you think." With that Tom stood up, tipped his hat, and wandered into the night. 

Alone with his thoughts, Eli thought of the morning, of what the next day would bring. He dreaded pretending to be fine one more day. He dreaded the monotony of another day of seemingly meaningless actions whose sum represented so little. So little. Somehow the dread clouding his mind gave way to the screams of his heart to be listened to. Eli sprang up and looked for Tom at the end of the street. Tom was walking into the town's late night diner. Eli emulated Eric Little only in his determination to get to the diner quickly. He spotted Tom sitting in a booth studying a menu. Pretending not to pant, Eli stood over Tom looking directly in his eyes. "I'll talk if you'll listen."

Tom smiled and waved his hand invitingly towards the other side of the booth. Eli sat down. Tom set his menu down, paused to sip out of a scratched, cream colored mug, and said "I'm listening."        

Limits

Loving the arts doesn't exclude you from loving the sciences and vice versa. People often define themselves by their vocation, and exclude "disjoint" areas from their interests or pursuits. Why can't scientists dabble in art? Or artists of any kind seek in depth knowledge of an area so "opposing" to their sphere of being? We too often separate areas of interest. Exclude, instead of incorporate. We excuse our lack of dabbling with "oh, I'm just not very good at..." We live in an infinite world, why limit your life?