I feel so broken.
I hate my reality.
I wake up at 3 am and think of the horror of it all.
How I desperately want this body of death reconciled to you.
Come, Jesus come.
I peer out the window.
Though I hate my reality, I so firmly believe:
YOU ARE GOOD.
It doesn’t make for logic and that’s probably why I feel it so deeply in my core.
I cry, Lord, you know the tears.
I feel such pain and my heart is ripped.
It bleeds into my chest and I wrack my brain thinking
Of options out of my circumstances.
Just work to change it and get there.
Your Spirit tunnels me back into the now moment.
Here, whatever is here, is what you, God of gods, have chosen for me.
This is what you want to give me.
Is this where joy and suffering learn to dance: now?
I hate reality
But I give thanks
I see your splendor in the lightning your works at growth through the rain. You call me tenderly into the woods and show me all you’ve gladly made. I taste the cool air and thank you for the blankets. You listen through a friend. You gather my tears and put them in jars.
I stand at the Light Rail and see a ‘woman of the streets.’ She averts her eyes and I want to hug her. She mumbles something about a ‘perfectly good Vicadin.’ Suddenly, she is on her hands and knees digging into the wet, dirty ground. She digs for this pill and pulls it up with a grin. The pill is soggy, patched with dirt. She shoves it into her mouth, desperate for relief.
What do I shove in my soul-to get some relief-find some escape? Christ, now I’m confronted with my desperation. And you blood offers so much more than a Vicadin.