I can’t do this. I don’t even have the time to do this. But here I am, writing again…
I’m incapable. I’m undesired. I’m too far away. I’m too close. I’m too much. I’m not enough. I’m too clumsy. Too awkward. Too not exactly right no matter how good.
The slight imbalance of scale feels like the entire weight of one side.
There is a voice, calling out into the aching recesses of the heart, straightening the lines, correcting the lies.
You are not what they said to you, about you. You are not what you thought about you. You are not your success, your failure. You are not what happened to you.
You are not what you lack.
For those who have been broken, who are hurting, grieving, there are a variety of things that seek to brand their stamp upon the forehead of our hearts and minds as to who we are. They use the tactic of maneuvering the vehicle of healthy grieving into a consuming mental and emotional preoccupation, in turn overcoming us, becoming us.
But the instances and seasons of devastation and deep hurt do not define us. The wounds and gashes of the soul may be proof of the interface of the unforgiving cost of living on this planet, but those instruments of destruction by the hand of the world are able to be turned into instruments of reconstruction by the hand of God.
That which has seemed to come to destroy you, to break you, to tear you down, when placed in the hand of God, will be the very tools that will reform you. Those things we have done or have been done to us do not define us. God may use those things to help shape us if we let Him, but it is He who defines us.
His love, His beauty, His sacrifice…His creation and recreation of us. This is who we are. Wonderfully and fearfully made, beautiful because of His perfection, not relying on our performance and experience.
But we must believe this.
And then allow our heart to be given to it.
No one ever received corrective open heart surgery by remote access.
There is a time where a cry must be made for it to be heard. Can we really receive? Is there something for me? Am I really that special? Am I desired? Am I cherished? Am I beloved for who I am and not just what I try to tirelessly do to gain the interest of others long enough to feel companionship?
Where does it end? Probably where it started.
There is that place, that daily availed altar of healing and surrender in one, the foot of the rugged beam of old, still firmly planted from 20 centuries. Still with the evidence of spilt blood, the beauty of a rose birthed of the womb of death.
Is that for me? Is there a place for me?
This must be, this is the place where I find a home, my home, the place where I am accepted, longed for. I find my true worth, my beauty, with the cleared mirror reflecting His love as I stare at my face. His grace, His mercy, my rescue…my defining moment.
“Brokenness doesn’t detract from beauty, but rather accentuates it.”