How Many Times

There are days when words don't roll in easy.  Not because of lack.  No, the words whisk inside my brain, they just don't always make much sense when strung together. I cannot knead them into smooth form. There is no outline.

And, too, I get to a place every now and then, when I'm just sick and tired of my words.  Sick and tired of a lot of things.  My words, my moods, my surroundings.  And then I figure out that it's me I'm sick of.

Sometimes, the meeting of God means the ushering in of tears.  And I thought I was ready for it all but it's hard, healing.  I've cried more in the last week than I have in the last year.  These words written are what I fear.  Which bring apprehension and sometimes self-condemnation, even self-hatred. That fear I can taste that I'm opening myself up to sympathy I don't want.  Because it touches such a sore spot for me, letting you in.  To exhibit any weakness, to show raw truth.  But if I don't, then what?  I only postpone the pain.  So, I come here and I choose courage and I share because I'm asked to and then I can more easily let it alone.

Yesterday, I skipped church.  I shouldn't have.  I wanted to isolate and be sad, I guess.  I wasn't choosing joy.  And this morning I had a dreaded doctor's visit.  Not dreaded because of any news or tests, just a routine visit to get set up with a doctor now that we've moved.  I didn't want to go.  I'm sick of my sickness.  I'm done with it.

What does this mean?  That I've allowed God to heal me or that I've decided to not let it define me?  No, unfortunately.  It means I've stopped taking my medication.  It means I was tempted to sabotage my appointment by not registering online. It means I listened to the doctor outwardly but inside was really hating him because it's somehow his fault that I have to be there.  And he listed about a million things he wants me to do.  And I said okay.  But I don't feel okay with it.  I'm angry.  I'm angry that I have a disease that means I have to do anything.  And when those stupid tears came in the sterile office and then we had to have the dreaded conversation about anti-depressants I felt like dying.  Wow, dramatic much?

Okay.  My ten second ( I know it was much longer than that) pity party time is up.

So, I came home and I was still mad.  And I had so wanted today to be okay.  I wanted yesterday's pain to be done and over and yet here I was in my tomorrow, still feeling ick.  And then I read Ann Voskamp's blog like I usually do.  And it was about Sara, whose heart I only last week discovered.  And she chose joy.  And, I, who am mostly fine, too often do not.  I need to.  How many times do I have to be reminded?

So then, now I've had my little rant.  Yeah, life's not fair.  But what did I read the other day?  It's not fair for all of us therefore that makes it fair for all of us.

So, I pray and I write and when sick of myself and my words, I listen to what God is trying to tell me.  I accept His words because they are gentle.


Counting the gifts:

His gentle words,
poetry
doctors
healing
tears
hearing what I need to when I need to

Submitting at

a holy experience
macro monday
the creative exchange