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