From the Belly of Hell Cried I.

I want to spew out curses honest as Peter's betrayal - overflow of this black-burnt heart spat through unclean lips - four-letter nails cutting holy flesh. Screaming

this body You gave,

why, oh Potter?

Screaming hatred at the malformed clay that cages my soul - screaming hatred at me - screaming hatred at You. Screaming

how long, how long, how long

I want to (oh God, I don't want to)

wallow in

my infantile selfishness,

my petulant greed,

my suffocating shame

my

I want to (oh God, I don't want to)

close my eyes against the tides

that always 

pull me back 

to the starting line

and (let me (please don't let me))

drown.

I had a dream

I spent everything I had, kicking out against thick waters. So close

to safety, my fingers clutching the dock's splintered edge. But

my arms were far too weak to carry my own weight. And

a creature, dark and hungry, was swimming up from the depths.

...

[Epilogue]
? ? later

When the morning came,

it came with sunlight

weeping mercy.

Can You Hear Me Now?

Listening is not a passive act.

It requires focus, attention to detail--to the dip and rise of her voice, the subtle nuances of the muscles in her face, the watery depths (or lack) of emotion in her eyes, the layers (or absence) of meaning in her words.

It requires self-control--not simply of your tongue (which, as an introvert, I'm fairly proficient at bridling), but of your mind (which, as an introvert, I'm not at all proficient at bridling).

That's probably why I talk so much to God. Because there's no fake-listening as far as He's concerned. He knows my scattered, rampant thoughts. I say, Speak, Lord, for Your servant is listening, but He knows I'm not really waiting to hear His voice. Sure, my mouth is shut, but my mind has already wandered to yesterday, or tomorrow, sliding down the steep and inevitable spiral into self-absorption.

So, in a misguided effort to avoid this trap, I talk. Talk, talk, talk. Words, words, words. On, on, and on.

Until He gently chastens me.

Guard your steps when you go to the house of God. Go near to listen rather than to offer the sacrifice of fools, who do not know that they do wrong. Do not be quick with your mouth, do not be hasty in your heart to utter anything before God. God is in heaven and you are on earth, so let your words be few. As a dream comes when there are many cares, so the speech of a fool when there are many words. Much dreaming and many words are meaningless. Therefore stand in awe of God, (Ecclesiastes 5:1-3, 7).

All too often, I am the fool, coming to God with my many words, thinking they will be a pleasing offering to Him. The words are beautiful, to be sure. But more times than I'd care to admit, they are empty.

God's words, however, are never empty. They are full of power. They release freedom and truth. They never return void. They are the words that shaped the universe and sparked the beating of our hearts.

How He longs for us to listen Him. To learn--the dip and rise of His voice, the subtle nuances of the muscles in His face, the unending depths of emotion in His eyes, the infinite layers of meaning in His words.

Day after day, the God of eternity invites us to sit at His feet, and to listen. Oh, Beloved. There is no greater privilege than this.

I Ask the Stars.

I'm learning to take comfort in my backwards life.

I still struggle sometimes, with the desire for "normality". People with normal lives aren't questioned, cautioned, asked to justify themselves. Instead, they are applauded, praised, considered a success. Rather than having a panic attack when asked about their future, they can calmly give a response detailing their educational, financial, career, and marital goals. They know the kind of car they want to drive, the kind of house they want to live in, and have already begun a college fund for their 1.5 children.

And when my own response is an awkward shrug of the shoulders, I'm already inwardly cringing at the expressions of disbelief I know I'll receive in return (their thoughts, loud enough to hear, what is wrong with you, what are you thinking?), and a (large, loud) part of me wishes that I had my life together, neatly packaged and ready for send-off into a big, bright future I've sculpted with my bare hands.

But I'm learning to take comfort, in this rather unsettling brand of insanity that is my life. I'm learning to set up my sails and trust the wind that carries me. I'm learning that I love you, but I don't need you, to tell me I'm alright.

I've placed my compass in better Hands.

It's been a long time since I've seen it. And there are moments, stretching painfully long, when my faith wavers. On those dark and desperate nights, I look up with pleading glance, and ask, Where, oh where, am I?

And the stars reply, with their twinkling eyes: Little child, of little faith. Do not fear; you are on course. These waters are drawing you, ever North.