Nov 6, 2006

I lay here on the floor, staring into the ceiling. No. I lied. Into nothing. I don’t even see the ceiling. It’s just a barrier between my body and the vast world that oppresses me. A strange phenomenon to physiologically observe something, but not truly see it. I’m acutely aware of every single vertebra resisting the pull of the rough floor. They fight back, not wanting to submit to the power they know will overtake them anyways. It’s a tug of war between what I want and how we were meant to be. How we were made. I lay here, hands clasped and resting on top of my stomach, and the texture of the carpet overwhelms me. Not comfortable to settle down on and find complete peace, but not so cold as to convince me to move. I’m stuck in this limbo of comfort, security and the unknown, uncertainty.

I lay here, voices float all around me, but don’t penetrate this bubble of doubt and self-pity I’ve construed around me. “Do you remember…?" I catch from someone’s conversation. Do I remember? Remember the time where I had everything under control? Of course. What I wouldn’t give to be back in that sheltered position. But do I really mean that? This is the cynical me raring its dark head.

I lay here and envision myself from the ceiling’s point of view. Kind of like a deep, thought-provoking scene from a movie where the girl just figured out that the person she cared about the most and trusted with every fiber in her body, betrays her. She lies on the bed while the camera slowly pans out and some acoustic guitar plays in the background. That one person who seemed to care so much now has left her hanging with no rope to grab onto. She free-falls, but is so numb that it doesn’t phase her. She also sees herself from the ceiling’s point of view. Kind of like a deep, thought-provoking scene from a movie.

I lay here and the faint, pink, neon lights from suspended wires blur my contemptuous world. The pale glow just taunts me and reminds me how I’m not who I thought I was. I’m not who I want people to think I am. And those lights glare at me. “You aren’t ok with yourself. You are so consumed with everyone’s perception of you that you fail to be yourself. Do you even know who you are?" they sneer. “I KNOW," I scream, “God created me in His image and takes great delight in me." They retort, “Then why don’t you live like it? Hm? Why do you get so upset when you try your hardest and still fail? When you aren’t perfect?" “It hurts so bad," I concede, “it hurts so bad," I whisper.

I lay here and music starts to play. Something in the melody tugs my consciousness back to reality. I struggle to come back. It would be so easy just to lay here and wallow in distrust and depravity. I’ve been through so much already. God, no. Wait, what is he saying? “How deep the Father’s love for us. How vast beyond all measure." Tears fill my eyes and the proud floodgates are broken open. Not by force or power, but by God’s tender love and mercy. Ever since I cried out amidst the pain for help, ever since I acknowledged I couldn’t do this on my own anymore, ever since I asked God to fill me because I was so empty, Jesus was quietly, humbly removing each individual brick, weeping over every single one. He used His own two hands to gently remove the barrier I constructed between myself and His simple desire to have a relationship with me. To define who I am. I couldn’t break it with anger and frustration. I couldn’t go on, simply lukewarm, confessing with my lips, but lying with my actions. My head said yes a long time ago, but my pride obviously said contrary. I had convinced even myself that I was living a life defined by Christ alone. Until now. I now know I was defining who I was based on my academics. How well I accomplished something and how many things I could do at once while still succeeding in all of them. I simply need to love God. And The Potter will mold and shape me. His love covers my disfigured, callous heart and releases me from carrying the pain alone.

I lay here on the floor, staring at the ceiling. It’s not over. The pain is still very real and wounds take time to heal. I have to start all over with Christ as my identity. The road ahead is long and isn’t full of daisies and fluffy clouds. But I’m ok with that now. I have the love of the one who created my emotions. The one who knows me better than I know myself. If that weren’t enough, I have the support and love of my friends. The simple act of listening. A hug. Wiping my tears. I’m so unworthy, but God continues to bless me. I am finding joy between the neon lights and rough carpet.

I lay here on the floor. And I stand up.