Layer After Layer.

Honest Reflections.
Originally uploaded by iamxlcp

Back from 2 weeks in Southern Africa. I'll have to post later on specifics.

On a trip like this, you can't help but come back changed. Someone asked if I was changed. Immediately I answered yes. This was at the end of our stay in Katse and I had started seeing some of the things God had done, all very small. God doesn't always work in huge, astounding ways. But then again, whenever He does work, that's something to pay attention to.

Throughout the few weeks, transparency definitely seemed to be a theme. Which isn't so great for me. Being transparent means showing my weakness, and I know that if I'm honest, I'm horribly weak. But I have always refused to let that large part of me show. I wanted to appear strong, like I have it all together. Thus, the scars I now bear on my arm and leg. When my then boyfriend & I broke up, my way of "coping" got so much worse than it alread was. I wanted to control and prevent the emotion that I knew was otherwise inevitable. I didn't want to hurt, and I didn't want to come off to others as the weak one who crumbled after a stupid break up.

So you see, transparency and I don't mix well. I don't cry. And I don't like to let people too close. When I do, I eventually snap out of it & try to push them away. And I don't want to be dependent.

Slap on a mask. Apply layer after layer. And let that become the new face of me. Just as long as no one sees the real me.

Each morning, 3 of us shared testimonies. Everyone was so honest. They were honest about struggles, about fears and weaknesses. Weaknesses.

But I could feel the unity. And I felt a lack of judgement. The morning came for me to speak for a few minutes. I held my breath and dove in.

I started out,

"I've always left out a bit of my testimony, but I realize it's the story of the last 2 years of my life I'm ignoring. So I'm going to try to be transparent today..."

The whole way through my voice shook and I couldn't catch my breath. I said what I needed to say, though. Everything was finally out in the open.

Transparency.

Maybe that morning made a lasting change. Probably not, though, even while I did learn so much from it. I still see myself pushing people away. Even today, at this moment. ...One of my closest friends, even my mom. And then I wonder why I feel so hopelessly alone.

But perhaps it's moments like this one that peel back even just one layer of this mask. And that in and of itself is progress.

kadi.

An Enduring Patience

Eyes open, you’re on the floor
Some might call this an epiphany
A revelation of sorts
But, really, you’re just happy to be alive.

You clench your fists, then hesitantly release them
Symbolically letting go of what you’ve clung onto for so long
Over and over, the same forced motion
Yet it never makes any difference; you just aren’t ready.

You cry out for a savior, even though you still hold onto your vice
You’ve given it up before, but you fall harder each time.
To some, God means love, safety, hope, and grace.
To you, God means pain, failure, hurt, and fear.

Torn, you decide it’s time you’re honest.
You tell God you can’t leave it behind.
You’re scared of what might happen, it’s who you are
So you take it back up, leaving the cross in the distance.

“I won’t force it upon you, that’s just not what I do.
But I’ll still love you. I’ll still watch over you.
So if you decide you want me, I’ll be right here.
I’ll be waiting for you. I won’t be going anywhere.”

That’s who He is. Maybe someday you’ll recognize Him.
He’s patient when no one else around is.
And He’ll stand here with His arms open wide
Waiting for the day you call His name.

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.

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