The 2016 story of us

When I was 25 I dated a guy who loved it when I would tell him the story of us: how we met, what I felt then, when it changed, and he would interject, winding his version of the story into mine.

It’s one of my favorite past times: with coworkers, with friends, family.  Sharing first impressions, memories, shifting intimacy, growing connection: all of us telling our version of the story of us.  I do this with Jesus too.  Sometimes it’s the full epic version, and sometimes it’s the story of us that day or year.

Hello again.

Hello.

It’s been awhile.

Where have I been? Here. And a million miles away.  Sitting at my computer in coffee shops typing words I longed to shout from the rooftops. And curled up in my bed cowering in caverns of darkness and corners of fear.  Facing dragons I suppose I’ve been preparing to fight all my life – facing the rejection I was assured would not wait for me. Facing failure. Facing isolation. Facing me. Facing Him.

Words I thought I’d never share

Every now and then, I click the ‘drafts’ tab on my “ALL POSTS” page out of a desire to diminish the disturbing number of posts begun and never completed.  

My drafts folder is a graveyard of thoughts.  Thoughts that I never had the time to flesh out or thoughts that I lacked the discipline to fully birth. And sometimes among the words that never made it – I find a draft that I don’t even remember writing, but that still feels so achingly familiar to me somehow.  

What is there to say

I want to speak now. I want to speak while the chaos and confusion is breaking through our apathy and waking us up to the reality that something is wrong. I want to speak and add my voice to the cries that are rising up around me.

I want to speak now. But what is there to say?

Trapped in this body of pale white skin, what can my breaking heart say that will help? That I understand? That I know how it feels? Obviously not. I feel pathetic even typing those questions on this page. Still, I have buried a brother who was shot down because of similar reasons.  I have held his weeping wife and will help raise his son. And I have seen the glory of God rise up from spilled blood more than once.

Healing on His terms

You know what I hate?  Apathy.  It cuts you off from people and from God and it does it in such a sneaky way that you actually don’t even care about being cut off.  The promise of joy is no incentive to apathy; it doesn’t care.  The threat of discomfort is no deterrent to apathy; it is indifferent.

I want to be healed from apathy.  And I know God wants that for me too.  Which begs a question: if God cares so much about me being healed and free from my sin, why doesn’t He just wave a hand over my head and heal me from it?