Singing, Melting, Screaming.

I've decided that the healthy thing to do would be to move on.

I know that no one reading this really knows what I mean by the aforementioned statement, but bear with me. I feel the need to say it out loud, or write it somewhere permanent, just so that I can't say that I never said it. Now is the time to move on.

I want all of you out there to know how good it is to be in a relationship with God. I can't put into the proper words how much I am dependent on that confusing, frustrating, difficult thing we often refer to as Christianity. I've been healed from so much.

Be warned, this might sting a little.

I wish I could go back in time a little... like three weeks ago, and tell the past version of me what a waste of time it is to feel sorry for yourself. The future holds healing.

All we have to do is be brave enough to ask for it.

That is the key to it all, really. We have to ask. I think sometimes I like having scars. They make me feel important. They make me feel like an adult. I don't want to go crying to Daddy with every ache and pain.

Even though He aches and pains for us to do so.

He said that in this world we would have many troubles.

Take heart.

Greater is He that is in me than he that is in the world (note the capitalization).

I remember spraining my wrist when I was really little. And screaming. 

I kind of wish, as an adult, that I would still be able to scream as loudly as I wanted whenever I got hurt. When we grow up, we're supposed to pretend that nothing really hurts.

Anyway, my dad was there, and he came running up to me, and asked me to see my arm. I didn't want to do anything but cradle it close to my whimpering body. We always have our own version of healing, I guess. He kept asking, and would often try to grab at my arm when it was available, which only made me retreat further. It hurt when he touched it. How could he make it better when it hurt when he touched it?

It is a willful decision to show someone else our wounds. It's painful, it's embarrassing, its... just... 

We have to. Nothing will ever improve if you never pull your shaky arm out from behind your whimpering body and let your Father touch it. It's going to hurt a little more at first...

You may say it's impossible, but I'm telling you, He heals ALL wounds. He restores me daily. He makes me to lie down beside still waters. He put a new song in my mouth. A hymn of praise to our God.

He lifts his voice, the earth melts. I melt.

And then, I am just this pool, this useless thing, that can take no shape except to follow the contours of His hand, where I was when I lost my own shape. 

I shall not want.

I ask myself, and you, my loyal reader(s?), what wound are you afraid to show Him? 

He knows. He loves. He heals.