They Can Be Saved. What About Me?

You know what I want more than anything right now? To believe that God can save me.

I'm falling, and the only direction, it seems, for me to go is to keep falling. You'll hear me tell countless people to not give up, don't give up on God, keep believing. You read my words that say we are never too far from God's grace. Heck, I just wrote something for my youth group's blog talking about forgiveness and what not. That should be up by the end of the year. And you know what? I believe every word I typed for that blog. I just cannot believe it for me. For the people I pass everyday on the streets, I believe any one of them can be "rescued", "saved", "forgiven". I believe with all my heart that anyone can begin again. Anyone, but I have a hard time counting myself in that.

And it sucks. By now, several people who always thought I was a strong Christian, realize now that I'm not so much. But I've still got my youth pastor... He asked me to go on a mission trip this summer to South Africa. I accepted. But maybe I shouldn't have. Maybe it would have been smart to stay home a year. And he looks at me and still sees that strong Christian girl. I don't want to, I can't let him see otherwise. I feel so fake. But...

I don't know anymore. I really don't.

I don't know who I am. I don't know what I believe. Or who I believe in.

Other than this god I've made for myself. A god that leaves scars and bruises on my skin but brings me relief I can't seem to find anywhere else.

Please Lord, don't look the other way.

kadi.

The Holidays.

The holidays always seem to have something about them. They can be the happiest time of year. Home from school for a little bit, time to slow down and enjoy what's around. Or they can be the crappiest time of the year. Either extreme.

Coming into this season, I knew it'd be a hard one. Not only for me, but for a friend of mine. And tonight. Tonight... I had two friends come up to me in tears. They feel like God's left them to fend for themselves, thrusting them into the hands of someone else who doesn't care at all. And these two, they're two girls you'd see smiling and laughing in the halls. And they always have something good to say about other people, always wanting to help out. They don't deserve what they have, they don't deserve what they're experiencing.

Holidays, especially Christmas it seems, have a way of making you stop and take time to count all of the hidden skeletons in the closet. They force you to stop and take inventory of what you do and don't have. Trust, love, relationships. Shame, guilt, regret.

I didn't know what to say tonight. It wasn't what I was expecting. I'm just trying to make it through the next two weeks with my own problems. And it hits you hard to hear your friend tell you what's been happening when you thought they had it out good. I've been on both sides. Neither is fun.

So with Christmas coming up, I have to believe my life can be something more. I have to believe this isn't all I'm meant to be. Addicted, needy, lost. I have to believe. I have to hope. No one is meant to be like this.

kadi.

I know an amazing guy, Jamie Tworkowski. He posted a blog last New Year's. And something he said has stuck with me through 2007:

You are brighter than the fireworks that paint the sky at midnight.

Scared. Confused. Sick. Regretful.

The speaker this past Sunday closed after speaking on the parable about the Lost Son. He told a couple real life stories as well, hoping to convey that we can ignore God, but never evade Him. In other words, God won't leave us. He's always near, even if it seems a lot like the opposite. I hear it a lot. But most times when I hear it, it becomes real to me again. Most times.

The speaker ended. Music started. And I began to think about all of it.

"God, I know it's You. You want me back, back in Your arms. But I can't. Everytime I'm on my knees, bowing at Your feet, it always ends in failure. This time won't be any different. And I can't take it anymore. Leave me alone. I don't want this. I'm tired of fighting, and in the end, always losing. I can't do this."

And now, thinking about it, I'm scared like you wouldn't believe. I'm confused and fed up. I'm so sick of this and want it to be all over. I regret everything, regret the first bruise, scratch, and cut. I regret ever giving up on my God. I regret all of it. It's gotten me no where, and I can't see at all how the end can possibly justify any of this. It's not worth it.

I don't want it to be like this. I want to believe in God and give Him everything I have and everything I am, even though it isn't much by now. I don't want to give up. But I don't know what I'm doing anymore.

kadi.

Resolutions.

"The folksinger said his friend was performing a covert operation, freeing hostages from a building in some dark part of the world. His friend's team flew in by helicopter, made their way to the compound and stormed into the room where the hostages had been imprisoned for months. The room, the folksinger said, was filthy and dark. The hostages were curled up in a corner, terrified. When the Navy SEALs entered the room, they heard the gasps of the hostages. They stood at the door and called to the prisoners, telling them they were Americans. The SEALs asked the hostages to follow them, but the hostages wouldn't. They sat there on the floor and hid their eyes in hear. They were not of healthy mind and didn't believe their rescuers were really Americans.

The SEALs stood there, not knowing what to do. They couldn't possibly carry everybody out. One of the SEALs, the folksinger's friend, got an idea. He put down his weapon, took off his helmet, and curled up tightly next to the other hostages, getting so close his body was touching some of theirs. He softened the look on his face and put his arms around them. He was trying to show them he was one of them. None of the prison guards would have done this. He stayed there for a little while until some of the hostages started to look at him, finally meeting his eyes. The Navy SEAL whispered that they were Americans and were there to rescue them. Will you follow us? he said. The hero stood to his feet and one of the hostages did the same, then another, until all of them were willing to go. The story ends with all the hostages safe on an American aircraft carrier."

-Donald Miller, Blue Like Jazz.

As he his telling this story in his book, Donald Miller is explaining one of his epiphanies about why a story is structured like it is- setting, conflict, climax, and resolution. This story made a point about resolution.

If a story and its elements come from reality and our experiences, then resolution must be part of that as well.

We all want an ending. Most of us a good one- to end our story being successful with a family and enough money to care for them. Others, though, don't care, just that it ends. But either way, we look for resolution, for the loose ends to be tied up, however neatly, and the lights to dim as the curtain slowly closes.

We look for a resolution. We look for reassurance and a nod signifying everything will be just fine. We look for peace, a lot of times, maybe, in our own lives. We look for comfort, and sometimes, just for the world to stop spinning for a moment so we can catch our breath.

But we find ourselves in that filthy and dark room. But it all seems normal, like that's how the world is supposed to spin. And when Someone finally steps in, down from their throne, we're caught off guard and aren't sure what to do with what they're offering us. It's grace and forgiveness and a love that no one else could give, but we've never seen anything like it and quickly retreat back to what we know. But you see, He, the one who decided to step into our reality, just as quickly becomes what we are, human, and shows us that He can relate to us. As a light is shone on everything we've built our lives on, we realize that what we've believed in was never worth it.

He shows up, in the midst of the most painful faces, in some of the stangest places, hoping to offer us a resolution that is true and honest among something masked over as real and right.

kadi.




Skillet - Looking For Angels.

Something Real.

I've really needed to write today, but nothing has been right in my face, getting my attention as something worth writing about. But, I'm still going to go for it.

I've grown up in the church. As kids, they teach us early to always be the same outside of the church as we are in. Now, we hear more about that, but branching out. Make sure you aren't wearing any masks. Don't be fake. Be something real and honest and true.

I never thought I had a mask on. I'm a pretty good Christian at church, school, and home. And I'm generally the same person everywhere I am.

But what if having a mask on meant more than just that?

Eventually, the more layered of a mask you get, the harder it is to recognize who you are, and maybe even that you are hanging on to one of those masks.

It started October '06. Walls were put up between me and God, but I began to tear them down thinking everything would be fine. And it was for awhile. But soon, I screwed up. First layer of a new mask.

It continued until New Years. I went to church and left feeling like I had really changed. And I did. For a week. Quickly I fell again, harder this time. Second layer.

Layer upon layer, I grew accustomed to my life as it was. People talked about being happy with life and enjoying it. I didn't understand that anymore. I had become so used to who and what I was, that I couldn't imagine anything else.

End of May was the first time I hurt myself. It was only a simple bruise from a rubber band, but it was a start. By this time my mask had grown hard, modeling after my heart. My eyes began to close as I wasn't aware of what was going on around me.

It continued. The bruising. Soon, this past October, I cut. And I loved it. It scared me, this wasn't right, it never did feel right, but it was all I had. By this time, I had given on a God who created everything I see. My mask had completely remodeled my life, into something no one could recognize. I didn't let anyone in, until a month before. Even then, at that time, it didn't help. I just wanted to be left alone.

But then I told my parents. And my friend learned more about what was going on. The mask is cracking down the middle. I try to stop, retreat back to what I know, but nothing works. Nothing can save this life. A little bit of light is shining through. And I'm pleading for everything to stop and pretend I'm not here.

I normally try to say I would never take anything back, it makes us who we are. And some of this, I can see know, has helped me. But the first time I ever did anything to cause harm- I would take that moment back in a heartbeat. But this is what I have in my hands now, it's what I'm left with.

It never made sense- any of it.

"It's not right when you find comfort in harming God's temple."

kadi.

Addictions.

Addictions hurt. Everyone. I used to think I only affected myself. I used to think what happened to me was my own problem and no one else had to be brought in on it. In the last couple months, that thinking has been destroyed.

I bruise. I scratch. I cut. And I thought it only hurt me.

A couple weeks ago, my mom cried as she pulled up my sleeves. She didn't want to do anything the rest of the day. Even go to church. I felt like I had ruined her life. It was my fault. All of my pain, regrets, shame from these past 14 months felt like they were suddenly thrust upon her, with me scrambling to pick up the pieces and try to keep them to myself. I don't want anyone to know what I know.

Last Thursday, I was on the bus with my school, making the eight hour trip home from North Carolina. A week with my school, and I didn't care that I had made it almost 40 days without doing anything, I didn't care. I had a few rubber bands on my wrist, and by the end of the night, I had a bruise running down the middle. My friend knows what I do. He sat down next to me, pleading with me to stop. He cried. Something I'd never seen from him, emotions I knew he had, and knew how strong, but it became real right then. I'm hurting him.

And I hurt God. My God.

"And I wonder what You think when You're staring down at me."

I never meant for it to be like this
I never wanted her to blame You
I never wanted her to be so angry

I saw her tears and knew right then
I knew my burden was placed on her
I promise, I never meant for her to feel this pain

I'm sorry I hurt you so bad
Just know, none of it was ever your fault
None of it was ever because of you.

kadi.

Honesty and Truth and Love.

I'm a teenage girl, 15. Glance at me and you'll see a normal kid, probably rude and doesn't care about others. Probably one of those teenyboppers that drool over every guy and doesn't have a brain that you know of.

That's what most people think. That's how most people would view us. Like this guy I met today.

I went with my mom to Hallmark to get Christmas ornaments. We go every year, she gets us (me and my brothers) an ornament and when we move out, we'll take them with us. But this year, I was hoping to make mine mean a bit more.

I support some amazing organizations. One of the newer ones being (Product)RED. I heard that they were working with Hallmark and to carry some stuff in the store. I was hoping one of the ornaments would be a (Product)RED. Sure enough, there was one. Red heart that says (inspi)RED.

This guy that worked there had talked to me and my mom while we were looking at the stuff. Cool guy, funny. He scanned in our items when we were checking out.

"Why did you choose this ornament? Was it because it's a heart?"

You see, he saw me. Figured that since I'm a teenage girl, I must like anything pink or red and a heart.

Nope. Not exactly.

"No. I actually support Product(RED) and heard that you guys were working with them."

"Oh. Most people come in and don't even know about that."

Sad. People "support" organizations and don't even know what they are about. I know a few people that see me wearing To Write Love on Her Arms shirts and ask me how to buy them, without even knowing the story behind it and what they believe in. But they see the shirt. And learn you can get the same one in purple. It looks cute. They have to get it...

I don't act like a lot of people I come in contact with. I ask why. How. I see someone on the side of the street and want to run up and hug them, let them know people still know how to love. I'll be out with my dad when he makes fun of someone. I want to sit down with that person and explain that not everyone is like that. Not everyone is blind and uncaring.

I love people and truly want them to know that. I don't go around and throw that word about. Love. But, instead, I believe that love is really the movement. Love changes things. It gives hope and freedom. It forgives. Love is always there, never changing, never failing. True love doesn't give up on you just when you need someone.

That's who I am. Not some crazy girl that is obessessed with pink and hearts and name brand purses and doesn't see anything else but that. It's great to like pink and hearts and purses, but when that's all you see, there's a problem. When you only see a celebrity and want to be just like them. When you only see that cute guy and don't care that he bullies the new kid or someone who can't connect with anyone else. Like those purses. Like the anything pink. Like all of that. But also work to see change in yourself and in others. Don't be what the world expects you to be. Prove them wrong and show them that you know how to think and act and live and go against everything this world teaches us. Show them that you believe in so much more. Show them that you care about the person who doesn't shop at American Eagle and get a new car for their sixteenth birthday. Be the change everyone wants to see, but few know how to carry out.

Don't let them stereotype you. Let them know there is still honesty and truth and love in this life we find ourselves in.

kadi.

Thanksgiving, Of Course.

Today is Thanksgiving. Turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes. Seeing family you won't see again for maybe a year, or Christmas if you're really close knit. Watch your favorite football team. Then sleep. Wake, and eat more.

I try to think though, of something I'm thankful for other than "Oh. This year I'm so thankful for all of you- my friends and family. You're all so wonderful." But this year, I haven't known exactly what I'm thankful for. Not up until now.

I have a friend. She met someone while she was overseas. My friend was given the opportunity to show Jesus to this girl and explain of the sacrifice He made. She accepted Jesus. She loved Jesus. "My Isa."

Things progressessed for the girl. Her mom found her Bible that my friend had given her and burned it. She kicked the girl out of the house and basically said she was no longer part of the family. So, the girl found a place with a friend. Her mother found her. "Get this girl out of her house." No mention of any 'daughter'.

Time went by as her mother kidnapped her. Beating her and locking her up for days. But she made it out and found my friend.

As my friend had to leave to come back home, she wanted to ask the girl one thing.

"If you have known you'd go through this much trouble, would you still have accepted Jesus?"

The girl hesitated, answering after a moment.

"I'm so sad... I am so sad because I can't live inside my house and I can't live inside my family. But I'm so happy because I can live inside my Isa."

My Jesus.

In the past year, since last Thanksgiving, I feel like I've done so much. I've done so much that I'm surprise Jesus still looks on my with a caring and forgiving heart.

Doubts. Blame. Giving up on Him. To where I set aside everything I knew. In the mornings, like a robot, I'd read my Bible. Go through the devotional. Then I'd become aware of the school day coming up. Hesitantly I'd lay my Bible at my feet and reach over for the scissors. Slowly, I'd release what I couldn't verbalize. I'd release the pain, regrets, shame, guilt, that only I knew.

But you know what? My Jesus doesn't mind. He loves me and wants to see me live. My Isa offers what I need to heal a wound deep enough that no one else can reach.

My Isa. He's saved me. He loves me. And He refuses to leave me, no matter how many times I come back from worship and plead with Him to leave me alone. He's there. Just like always, just like when nothing was wrong.

kadi.

On My Shoulders.

It's Wednesday. My mom knew as of last night. My dad knew earlier today.

I woke up this morning, hoping that after last night, I'd be able to avoid any conversations and make it off to school still feeling okay. When my mom came into my room near tears, I realized that wouldn't happen.

She rolled up my sleeves. Looked for the faded scars.

She asked why. Why. Why.

"I'm so upset, so angry with God right now for letting you go through something like this."

No. If I've learned anything this past year, it'd be that it's not God. He's the one keeping me alive. He's the reason why I can look at my wrists and still believe in rescue and a better ending.

I never meant for anyone to know. Caleb. Jessie. My youth pastor. My parents. I realized that I brought this upon myself. This pain, guilt, shame. These regrets. And I never wanted anyone to ever have to carry that on their shoulders. I wanted it to stay on mine. No one else should have been burdened. It's not their fault. I didn't do this to myself because of them. I never have.

Things are changing. Rapidly, with me losing my way. My life isn't anything like what it was just 24 hours ago. But, this is it. This is what I've been given.

kadi.

Trash. Just, Trash.

Tonight was good. To some extent. Compared to other nights, it was good. Compared to what tomorrow night is promising itself to be, it's great. It was.

I went out with the family to Rooster's. Amazing place. Amazing chicken fingers.

...anyway. Somehow we got on the topic of some things some people who prepare the food (or anyone, for that matter) at restaurants do. My mom mentioned this one guy who spit on a customer's hamburger after it was sent back because it wasn't fully cooked. Not the right thing to do, I'll admit.

"Why would someone do something like that...?" my brother asked. He tends to be the more questioning and sensitive person. He can't understand why some people do the things they do.

"Ian, people like that are trash. That's it, all there is to it. Just trash." my dad replied, without hesitation.

Immediately I stop. I don't say anything. But, I look at my mom hoping she'd say something to him to quiet down, since she can catch on sometimes when I get upset when my dad says something. She doesn't notice, and instead, nods along.

By this time, I want to go home. Sometimes I wonder why I try to avoid my dad. Well. Here it is.

"They're just trash."

I don't know. Maybe it's wrong to think like I do, but I absolutely cannot agree with that. I've done some things that aren't the best. Some things that are wrong. Am I trash? I've been mean to others before. Am I trash? I was close to asking my dad what he thinks of a certain kind of people, just to see what he would say. Since, well, people would probably label me as one of those people. I expected him to say something along the lines of "they're trash."

Honestly, we should all be labeled that. Trash. Trash. Trash. Lying, cheating, thieving cowards. Destined for death because of our choices. But, you know what? I believe in a God that created everyone of us individually. He created us so He could love us. When He sees us, He sees His masterpieces, carefully molded and shaped into something intricate and beautiful- something meant to reflect everything He is. He doesn't see trash. It doesn't matter if you're studying to be a pastor or if you're currently serving life in prison or on death row for murder. It just doesn't matter. God doesn't see trash. He sees something worth more than anything else He's created. He sees something worth twice as much as everything else that is His. He sees us. Even in our failures. He sees His masterpiece.

No trash.

In His eyes, nothing is known to be trash. Not even that guy who spit on his customer's hamburger.

Grace.

kadi.

Tuesday.

Today is Saturday. Tomorrow, Sunday. That much closer to Tuesday. Eh.

Y'see, I have "issues" (as a friend of mine likes to say). But I keep quiet and don't say much. No one knows the whole story. At least for right now. My youth pastor knows just the "what" not "why", "when"... He insists on me telling my parents. Basically, if I want to go to Africa this summer with the youth group, that's what I'm going to have to do.

So, I decided. Tuesday. My dad will be in Kentucky, so I don't have to tell him just then. Only my mom. Dad'll get mad. He will. A year ago, he thought I was depressed and got mad saying something along the lines of "What kind of witness is that? Christians shouldn't be depressed." Way to build me up, there.

But, my mom will know by the time Tuesday comes to an end. I'll show her the faded scars. I'll explain that that scratch on my right wrist wasn't an accident, but, instead, something I did on purpose. I'll lay it all out. I'll pull up my sleeves and tell her of how I haven't been the same this past year. I'll tell her why I was so down on my birthday- a day one should be happy and joyous. Nothing will be hidden as my layered mask begins to crack down the middle and the first ray of light comes through, with me pleading to be left alone.

Then my youth pastor will ask me if I said anything yet. "Yes." Hesitant. But I'll say it. And for once in my life, I'll speak the truth. Not tip toeing around what I know life to be and sugar coating it all for everyong looking in, pretending it's all just like a merry fairy tale.

When he first asked me about it, I told him I tried saying something once already, but backed down. "Why?" My mom said something. Something like "I trust you. I don't need to worry about you." So, how could I tell her then? I told him that. Said she trusts me and I couldn't tell her. He said maybe, in the end, they'll trust me more, having told them and all. For a second, hope. Then, reality. Would they really? Honestly, how could they trust me when I've kept something secret for so long, when I've neglected to tell them what was really going on when they repeatedly asked me what's wrong? Maybe they will. If I were them, though, I'd have a heck of a time trusting someone then.

So, here it is. My last few days carrying this cross by myself, willingly. And who knows, maybe it's also my last few days not being hyped up on meds.

kadi

Across the Broken Fields.

so, let's see.
i already have a xanga [brokenfieldspoetry] but maybe i'll stay over here. =]
i like, no, need to write. i'd curl up and die if you took away my paper and pen. so, that's what you'll see here. poems, songs, ramblings.

let's start here. i wrote this a couple weeks ago, before school started. and nothing much has changed since then. one high- but then came crashing down as usual. now i'm stuck here. apathy, maybe? or oblivious? i don't know. but i'm thinking i don't like it.

Rag Doll

A rag doll, tossed in the ocean
Beaten by each oncoming wave
Swept from current to current

I drift in and out of consciousness
Never knowing what is fact or fiction
Never knowing who is friend and who is foe

I'm thrown around like dead weight
Known as a 'thing'
No longer human

I hold my breath, reach for the surface
Hoping to find a ray of light
Maybe hope traced in tears

But I only fall further
Hitting harder each time
Each breath coming closer to death

When will it end?
I cry
Why do You not respond?

One can only take so many thrashings
Burdened by the guilt and the shame
Most could never stand long

I scream, "Rescue me"
But any hope returns empty
Bouncing off the hollow walls

Why do You leave me here?
Why must it happen?

Is this some cruel joke?
Because I know I can't survive any longer.

-kadi.