The Whisper.

Her enemy had never been tangible. It wasn’t something she could point at, or pick out of a list. It wasn’t a person. It wasn’t memories. It wasn’t something she saw when she looked in the mirror, or a place that scared her. It wasn’t loneliness, or depression, or anxiety. She knew these things pretty damn well, but that was never it. It was something else. It wasn’t just because the world was a scary place, or that people couldn’t be trusted for the most part. It wasn’t that a teacher had put her down in front of the class, or that she felt as invisible at home. It wasn’t any of these things. It wasn’t something she could write on a piece of paper. It wasn’t that she drank a lot, or that she found comfort in only drugs, above anything else. It wasn’t that thing. It was something else.

It was more of a whisper.

One that would creep up the back of her neck. Pulling on the small hairs that gathered there. This kind of thing.

She noticed it most often when she was with other people. Her own internal differences, being exposed to herself, as she watched how the others lived. How they reacted. When she heard their opinions, and felt them express themselves. When she compared. And it was so hard not to compare. Because she did feel so utterly different, when standing next to another. No matter their person, she wasn’t biased. She knew, there was something wrong with her. She could taste it, in each hug. In each hello. In each touch, or look or caring glance. Sometimes she would wonder, if they touched her, did they feel it? and so she would pull her hand back. Or not, fully embrace that hug. The whisper, the tugging of the back hairs, like a ghost. Made her hide, and on every normal day, this made her feel crazy.

Isolated.

Because it was always behind her. This nagging. This yanking of her shoulder. It had been with her since she was just a little one. And every year, every month, and every day, it became even more of a “something”. This berating feeling, this internal and external pull, dragging her away into a confusion about herself. She couldn’t just be. There was no such thing for her. There was always the comparing, the questioning. The self loathing, the insecurities. She wanted nothing more than to breathe, and settle within herself, and yet…the tugging, would not ease. No matter how hard she prayed, or how many psychiatrists she spoke with. The ever-changing bottles of prescription antidepressants. Never the answer, never the relief. Waiting around every corner, without fail, the rush of her own torment. Nameless, and paper-thin, the mocking ghost, of all things left un answered. That she desperately wanted to escape.

28 years.

It would take that long. Twenty eight damn years, before she would find its name. Turning her eyes to see the truth, and find herself, staring in the face of evil, growling a righteous anger. Loud, and fierce, like a lion.

She hadn’t expected it, this answer to come, or understood what it is was to embrace the sheer magnitude of it. Coming softly in a quiet place, to then tear her heart to shreds. Sometimes, the truth really hurts. And, she had gotten used to the whisper, the never-ending interruptions of her soul. Her mind. Even her own body. The voice that stood between her and everything else. Even, and sadly most of all, love. The hard wall she could not break through. Her knuckles worn and scarred from trying. But it came.

Year, after year, the twisting insides finally bursting forth, and making her sick to herself. And in the wake of her own truth, she would be free. Pale faced, nauseous and full of rage, she would crawl towards her restoration. Grasping her hands to pull on the heavens. Her memories turning to vomit, dragging herself to God’s feet. Finding refuge in the war. A peace in the midst of a great fire. And He would save her.

Her enemy had never been something tangible. It wasn’t something she could point at, or write down on a piece of paper.  It wasn’t loneliness, or depression, or anxiety. She knew these things pretty damn well, but that was never it. It was something else.

Her enemy, was a secret.

A bitter adversary of the heart.

Buried deep within her own body, the places she could not touch. What a scary thing.

The shameful word echoing in all the places she knew existed.

Molested.

Tearing it out of her own chest, like a foreign implant.

The abortion of a lie, and her own deep scream that came with it.

Molested.

This rotten and festering thing,  dying in her own hands. Twenty eight years ripping at her own chest, and now the thing was out. The exhaustion taking her over and she would decide to sleep for a little while, because this wasn’t the end. This was the beginning of the truth in her life.

She knew it.

And so, she thanked God for the lion on her heart, that mighty roar he drew up inside her and she let her eyes roll to back of her head. The eyelashes laying still. Her hands limp at his feet, her hair washing over his toes, and she slept. For the very first time, in her entire life, she truly slept. While He stood over her, mighty and glorious. His robe draped upon her like a blanketed child. He whispered words of safety over her as she slumbered, washing the blood and filth from her hands, with his breath.

Taking back His daughter, and for her, it had been a long time coming. He knew that.

Dusting off her feet, and drawing up the light around her, He kissed her face. And watched her sleep.

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Just Drive.

I’ve been remembering what it’s like to look through the eyes of a child.

The beautiful ignorance.

The unfailing trust.

The light of joy that literally pierces through their eyes.

The thing I find I’m most often missing, when I look in the mirror.

Tired eyes, a hint of strain.

An adult, and there’s this pressure.

Have I forgotten what I need to remember?

When I was young, maybe four, five years old. My best friend… was my Dad.

I used to ride next to him in his car, music flowing around me, the wind blowing in through the pulled down windows.

A little girl never feels so safe. Then with her Dad at the wheel.

We’d pull into the parking lot of some local home improvement store, and he’d come around the side to unlock my car door.

“Hey bud, you ready?”

Reaching out that big Dad hand, that only little girls know so well.

I think about this.

That simple act of trust…

Of  holding his hand through the parking lot.

The clunky metal vehicles pulling in and out around us.

Remembering how safe I felt.

Not even the notion to watch out for cars, because he was doing it for me.

Not concerned with what we we’re doing, or what it was that we needed.

Just holding his hand, me and Dad.

The warm palm, I was so used too. The black oil mechanic stains on his fingers. Safe.

Mine.

Dad.

I so often forget Father, to take the hand you are reaching out to me.

The scar that bumps over your palm, there is nothing you haven’t done to be with me.

The world teaches me, I’m not to need anybody.

Keep your hands free.

Find your own way.

Never rely on another.

But I don’t want to do that.

I want to hold Your hand Father, just like I held my Daddy’s hand.

I don’t want to look out for cars, because I know…

You are doing it for me.

I don’t want to think about where we’re going…

I just want to go there with You.

The country wind through the pulled down window.

Music flowing around me…

A girl never feels so safe as she does, as when her Dad has the wheel.

Take the wheel Father.

While I close me eyes,  and listen to the tires tread over the black cement road.

The soothing, dull rhythm.

Drive Father….

Just drive.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Our Hands will Bleed, but Our Hearts will Beat.

It is through the deepest of our pain, that we are asked to stand.

When darkness stalks us, a black oil suffocating… faith.

When our weakness’s mock us, and stare us in the face.

Grim and shameful a thing.

When all strength has left our limbs…sitting fearful at the edge of the cliff.

That the deep breath fills our bodies.

Fill me up, Lord. Fill me up.

The breath, of life.

Called in the night of our dreams, in the weight of our tears.

The whisper tugs at the straps of our souls.

Be of hope, child. Be of hope.

The earth beneath your feet, cracks with uncertainty.

Tree roots lifting, clinging.

White knuckles, grasping.

The dust catching your eyes, that awful burning.

You curse your own flesh, in its weariness.

Our hearts pulling to catch up, when things change…too fast.

The place between your mind, and heart, a criss crossing of wires. Sizzling.

But He calls.

That cool wind, to sooth the burn.

A love ointment, for a mind infection.

An intimate pull of heat, a love that runs deep.

To the very nature of your cells.

The voice upon the waters.

Be of courage, child. Be of courage.

Catching each tear, in His mighty hand.

Storing them up in the Great Heart.

Restoration. Is a promise.

Do not fear, child. Do not fear. I hold the stars in my hands.

Joy comes in the morning my love. It always comes.

A lullaby of Truth.

And even though the world around me, shakes, it crumbles…my hands are bleeding…You Father, ARE BIGGER.

The cool wind to sooth the burn.

The love’s breath to heal the torn.

The All. The Is. The Forever.

Yes, child. Nothing in vain.

Nothing….in vain.

It is when the tidal wave hits, that we are called to stand against the crashing waters.

Hand in hand.

The salt waves whipping our cheeks, matting our hair, stinging our eyes.

A wall of brothers and sisters.

Our hands will bleed, but our hearts will beat.

Oh they will beat, the glory of God.

My hands are ready.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Oh People of Courage. Stand.

Ever tired of the counterfeit, walking through a world shellacked in lies and fake faces.

Dulled out smiles, practiced reactions and apathy.

Searching for one real glance, some kind of heart recognition.

Something real.

I don’t see on the outside, what I feel on the inside.

These games we all play, I struggle deep.

Rising to shake of the things the world has taught me, the things I hate.

Don’t trust anyone.  Don’t be vulnerable. Don’t. Don’t. Don’t.

Love, to a point. Give, at a limit. Fight, but only for yourself.

Money. Stuff. Image. Beauty. Popular. Lies. Bullshit.

Almost unable to fight it, because well, this is where I live. This barren wasteland for the heart.

But, I try.

I REFUSE.

To be defined by plastic trinkets,  paper money and some version of a human being society has designed.

Am I the only one…who see’s this.

That the world never follows through on its promises.

A desire to fall to my knees in the busy street and scream..

WAKE UP!!!!!!!!!!!

The people rushing like mice to rotten cheese, through zig-zagged sidewalks.

Tears streaming, wake up dead eyes. Come to life hearts of stone.

Reaching out, hands shaking, to touch their garments.

Pulling and yanking on their jackets.

My knees wet and soaking with the morning rain, as their faces turn away.

I want love to blow through these streets.

I want to see them taken away by it, and fall next to me.

For flowers to grow through these broken street cracks.

Let me cry with you, we don’t have to be alone. Please wake up.

But only the clicking of their rushed heels on damp concrete.

Places to go, places to go, places to hide.

I see you. I’m looking. I’m praying.

Sun, pierce through the sky. Hot, heat bring them to life.

Draw out the glimmer of their eyes. The hope and light they carried with them when they were children.

Remember.

Wind come and tear away their covers. The hardened armor they’ve been forced to wear.

Leave them exposed and raw, knees weak and buckled.

Light come, God calls. Fill them then, with the truth. A hope so deep their hands fall from their faces, and they laugh in the street.

Drawing up the left over drops of rain with their cupped palms and wash that weary fog from their eyes.

Let them wake and rise to the love story, to their destiny. Leave them satisfied with nothing but hearts filled with joy.

Spring trees from barren roots.

Rivers from the drought of their souls.

Rip out fear and burn its marrow.

Am I the only one who see’s?

NO.

It is not just me.

Scattered across the earth, I feel these same prayers.

Stand with me. Stand for them. STAND FOR HIM.

I refuse, to be defined by the rules of the world. By the rules of scarred hearts.

On my knees, soaked by the rain, cold drops of water falling down my eyelashes.

I cry…..

WAKE UP!!!!!! Oh people of courage. Stand.