Had a dr appointment this morning (by phone, since I couldn't make it to Montana). After being chastised for forgetting to get an extremely important blood test done after our last appointment (in October- forever ago! He expects me to remember?), I was able to ask some questions, namely: Will I ever be able to eat like a "normal" person again?
Sadly... no.
It was disappointing, to say the least. I'd unknowingly been clinging to a small shred of hope that, someday, I would again be able to partake of real bread (guess I'll always look funny at communion...), or maybe some garlic... perhaps an almond or two? I never really cared for pineapple, so I don't miss it all too much.
Alas... it is never to be.
Stupid colon. You're ruining my life.
You too, thyroid.
Whatever God wants...
regarding: quotes
An excerpt from Katie's most recent post at The Journey. It strikes me somewhere tender.
I look at the joy that is spilling out of her wrinkled face and I repeat the words that she has spoken in my head and that doesn’t make sense. She is hurt and she is suffering and she is laughing about it and sparkling with beauty and radiating Joy.
That doesn’t make sense. Not to me. Not yet.
But she already knows what I am just learning. That even this, it is from Him. Even this, it is Holy ground. This thing that I label suffering, it is really Joy.
“Does disaster come to a city unless the Lord has planned it?” Amos 3:6
I live with these human eyes, and with these human eyes of mine I label. I label one thing as good and one thing as bad. I label moments as blessing or burden. And I forget that all this labeling, it is not my right, not my place, not mine to do. To declare what is a gift in my life and what is a curse is to eat from the tree of knowledge of good and evil, to sit in the garden full of abundance and beauty and choose the forbidden. The knowledge of good and evil, that was never intended for me. Could I, like Jja Ja Maria just quit my labeling and say, "Whatever God wants. Whatever HE wants!"
.............
I see it deep in Jja Ja’s eyes, she knows. Even this suffering, He did this. He did this, not because He doesn’t know the ache – He does. He did this, a gift to me.
For the good of me. For the good of her. For the good of us, those who love Him and are called according to His purpose. For the good of all this world and the glory that is His.
And I know in that moment, I can choose to label the ripped open heel and the ripped open family or I can choose to count it as a gift, God’s grace. And the beauty is not in the circumstance or the label but the fact that in His graciousness He is here with me anyway, regardless of the circumstance or the way I choose to view it. The grace of being near to Him in trial, as long as I can chose to see it, is certainly the greatest grace of all.
This is what Jja Ja knows and this is what I am learning. God’s grace is not blessing, earthly reassure, our security or even the security of our children. God’s grace is not that all is “well” and right in my eyes. God’s grace is not when He saves us but that He saved us.
Here I am face to face with Jesus in the dirt and all I have to do is choose to see, accept the grace offered freely. His compassion and His mercy, this Grace, it never fails. Each moment each breath, is a gift simply and only because I get to spend it with Him.
Because of the Lord’s great love we are not consumed for His compassions never fail. They are new every morning; great is your faithfulness. Lamentations 3:22-23
Whatever He wants. And I am thankful.
No... I don't understand this yet, either. Even reading it, it somehow passes over my head.
Tubular Thursday
regarding: tubular tuesday
So Tuesday was crazy-- doing a load of hand-wash laundry, practicing for the concert, taking Juneaux to the vet for his limp, meeting with my sponsor for the first time... Madness. By the time I got home, the internet was off, so I never got to post my Tubular Tuesday.
That's okay-- I just had to wait until the next "T-day" came around! :)
Triumphant Tales
- I got a job, like a real person.
- I've had a series of "good days"
- I can play my guitar solo without looking at my fingers
- I've got my favorite shirt almost mended
- I'm stepping into a new "chapter" in my life (scary? yes.)
- I'm almost 23. I halfway didn't expect to live this long.
Thankfuls
- Enhanced perspective
- Individuality
- Families
- Racquetball with friends
- Juneaux
- Herbal tea
- Safe people
- Mercy and justice combined
- Less stress about finances
- God
Thoughts to Ponder
- Not everything is my fault.
- I am not responsible for other's thoughts, feelings, or actions. I am responsible for mine.
- I am talented. Yes, I am.
- Love is the bedrock of it all.
That's okay-- I just had to wait until the next "T-day" came around! :)
Triumphant Tales
- I got a job, like a real person.
- I've had a series of "good days"
- I can play my guitar solo without looking at my fingers
- I've got my favorite shirt almost mended
- I'm stepping into a new "chapter" in my life (scary? yes.)
- I'm almost 23. I halfway didn't expect to live this long.
Thankfuls
- Enhanced perspective
- Individuality
- Families
- Racquetball with friends
- Juneaux
- Herbal tea
- Safe people
- Mercy and justice combined
- Less stress about finances
- God
Thoughts to Ponder
- Not everything is my fault.
- I am not responsible for other's thoughts, feelings, or actions. I am responsible for mine.
- I am talented. Yes, I am.
- Love is the bedrock of it all.
Tuuuuuuubular, dude.
Breakfast Blues
regarding: cooking, food allergies, frustration, resentment
WARNING: Snark Alert.
Okay, not really.
Okay, maybe just a little.
I'm sick. (Read: irritated and cranky over the stupidest little things.)
And, when I'm sick, annoyances that I'm able to take in stride on other days suddenly become large frustrations that I have a hard time dealing with... which is, in and of itself, annoying. Of course.
Seriously, though, all snarkiness aside, I think it would behoove K to begin practicing meals that involve something other than beans, leftover spanish rice, and tortillas. Or cereal. Or toast. That's about the extent of her breakfasts and/or lunches (oh, I forgot the pasta. That's a lunch thing.). But thinking forward to someday when she's married, her family is going to suffer at least a little. When she's the mom, there won't be leftovers unless she makes them in the first place... which launches a vicious catch-22 cycle that can only be stopped by pasta or cereal.
I guess it just comes back around to that "I feel like you don't care and that bothers me" thing again. Like our health and welfare just isn't important enough to her for her to bother putting in more than the minimum effort to slap something on the table. She could do better/more. I know it. She has before. But it takes too much effort to do it on a routine basis.
Take, for instance, this morning. Our routine is that we eat around 7:30. I woke up around 6:40 (ten hours of sleep- YES!!), and nothing was happening in the kitchen yet. I was tempted to go in and make something (so that I knew we'd have something good), but I thought, No, it's her deal. Let her do it. (Explanation: In my experience, it takes about an hour to make a decent, well-rounded meal. You pretty much need to start at 6:30, unless it's something like quinoa or cream of rice.)
So, at the breakfast table we have a skillet of scrambled eggs (which I can't eat), a small saucepan halfway filled with something mysterious and beany, and an even smaller saucepan one third of the way filled with leftover spanish rice. That is not going to cut it. But D had a banana by his plate, and C was fasting.
Halfway through the meal, someone asked what the mysterious beany stuff was... and SHE DIDN'T KNOW!! It was just in the fridge, so she heated it up and served it. What the heck?! It took us a couple minutes to figure out if this was a recent leftover, or something that had been sitting there for a week or more. (Thankfully, it was recent.)
Is it too much to ask that you actually know what it is you're feeding us? Especially in a house with so many food allergies-- I could have lost 3-5 days to sheer agony simply because you weren't sure what it was that you served for breakfast.
And now, in her defense...
It is hard for her to get up in the morning. I understand this. We are extremely similar in this respect.
Also, so did bulk up the "goulash" (as she called it-- it was actually leftover tamale pie) with leftover quinoa, so she did try to make to go farther.
At least it was protein. Her meals before that were pure carbs. I was starving.
And, most importantly... it's easy to clean up after her meals. I hate doing dishes, and she usually has very few dishes dirty. So I guess it's a trade-off...
Okay, not really.
Okay, maybe just a little.
I'm sick. (Read: irritated and cranky over the stupidest little things.)
And, when I'm sick, annoyances that I'm able to take in stride on other days suddenly become large frustrations that I have a hard time dealing with... which is, in and of itself, annoying. Of course.
Seriously, though, all snarkiness aside, I think it would behoove K to begin practicing meals that involve something other than beans, leftover spanish rice, and tortillas. Or cereal. Or toast. That's about the extent of her breakfasts and/or lunches (oh, I forgot the pasta. That's a lunch thing.). But thinking forward to someday when she's married, her family is going to suffer at least a little. When she's the mom, there won't be leftovers unless she makes them in the first place... which launches a vicious catch-22 cycle that can only be stopped by pasta or cereal.
I guess it just comes back around to that "I feel like you don't care and that bothers me" thing again. Like our health and welfare just isn't important enough to her for her to bother putting in more than the minimum effort to slap something on the table. She could do better/more. I know it. She has before. But it takes too much effort to do it on a routine basis.
Take, for instance, this morning. Our routine is that we eat around 7:30. I woke up around 6:40 (ten hours of sleep- YES!!), and nothing was happening in the kitchen yet. I was tempted to go in and make something (so that I knew we'd have something good), but I thought, No, it's her deal. Let her do it. (Explanation: In my experience, it takes about an hour to make a decent, well-rounded meal. You pretty much need to start at 6:30, unless it's something like quinoa or cream of rice.)
So, at the breakfast table we have a skillet of scrambled eggs (which I can't eat), a small saucepan halfway filled with something mysterious and beany, and an even smaller saucepan one third of the way filled with leftover spanish rice. That is not going to cut it. But D had a banana by his plate, and C was fasting.
Halfway through the meal, someone asked what the mysterious beany stuff was... and SHE DIDN'T KNOW!! It was just in the fridge, so she heated it up and served it. What the heck?! It took us a couple minutes to figure out if this was a recent leftover, or something that had been sitting there for a week or more. (Thankfully, it was recent.)
Is it too much to ask that you actually know what it is you're feeding us? Especially in a house with so many food allergies-- I could have lost 3-5 days to sheer agony simply because you weren't sure what it was that you served for breakfast.
And now, in her defense...
It is hard for her to get up in the morning. I understand this. We are extremely similar in this respect.
Also, so did bulk up the "goulash" (as she called it-- it was actually leftover tamale pie) with leftover quinoa, so she did try to make to go farther.
At least it was protein. Her meals before that were pure carbs. I was starving.
And, most importantly... it's easy to clean up after her meals. I hate doing dishes, and she usually has very few dishes dirty. So I guess it's a trade-off...
Disclosure
regarding: memories, the past
I was 17. Nobody knew.
I had told a friend from school... sort of. We sat on the floor in "my" room, talking about various things. She said, "I was molested by my uncle."
I said, "I was molested, too."
We talked about something else.
-----------------------------------------------
I sat on the porch of our small apartment, one of my favorite places in the world. It was my refuge, my thinking place, especially when the warm summer nights rolled in. Cocooned by the thick, humid air, I would stare at the lights across the canal, stare at the stars, stare into the darkness... Oftentimes I would light candles along with my cigarettes. Their small flickers never did help me make any sense of my disjointed self, but they soothed and calmed me.
It was where C and I spent countless summer nights, talking until dawn so that we could sleep the day away and do it all over again.
It was where I filled out my application for Youth Rush 2006-- my ticket out of my tense circumstances.
It was where I practiced my part for a choir piece- the only class I cared about enough to attend.
It was where my mom and I were sitting, smoking cigarettes during an interlude in the evening round of life buzzing away behind the sliding glass door. We laughed and joked, swapped stories and small talk... all so inconsequential. She stubbed out the last shreds of smoldering tobacco, rose, and moved towards the door.
Suddenly, out of the blackness of the sky above, I knew- I had to tell her.
What? Why? Where did this come from? Why does it even matter? It was so long ago... who cares? Just leave well enough alone.
I wasn't so much concerned with her response as I was with the reason for this sudden, irresistible urge to vomit out my deepest, darkest secret.
"Mom, wait... I, uh... I need to tell you something. Something big."
My hands shook. I lit another cigarette, despite the fact that I'd finished my last one mere moments before.
"Mom... um... well... what I need to tell you is that, uh... well... G... he, uh... he molested me. When I was a kid."
Those few words... and my life would not be the same.
"He WHAT?!"
Anger. Not directed at me, but at him. Instantaneously. She leapt to my defense like a lioness protecting her cubs.
------------------------------------------------------------------
I had tried to tell her once, while it was still happening. I had to be all of 10. We were in the car, coming home from... grocery shopping? It was just me and Mom, a rare occasion. She pulled smoothly into our parking space, and as we sat for those few moments before climbing out of our rickety little car, I knew... I needed to tell her.
Tell her what? How do I say this? What do I call it? Rape? No. I know rape. I've seen it on tv. He didn't rape me, but it's close, so... what do I say to make her understand? "G tried to rape me." Not quite right, but she'll pay attention, and then I can explain. Okay, now. Say it.
I looked up from inspecting my knees as she eased off of the driver's seat and out the squeaking door.
Oh. Too late. Oh well.
I never thought about telling her again. Until, that is, we sat on the porch together.
----------------------------------------------------------------
Most of that conversation is a blur. I remember her anger. I remember some sort of soothing comfort from her, and I think that I probably cried a little. I at least teared up, I'm reasonably sure about that.
I remember her insistence that we "call someone", and her disappearing and reappearing, phone and phone book in hand.
I remember learning that we had to go somewhere the next morning, so I could file a report. That meant talking about it. I began to regret my decision.
I remember chain-smoking. Fiercely. I finished my pack that night, bought some more the next morning, and finished that, too.
I remember the agonizing questions that daylight brought. "What happened? Where did it happen? Where did he touch you?"
Please. I learned "good touch, bad touch" in grade school, a fat lot of good it did me.
I remember the struggle to give voice to the memories that had lain in malignant dormancy so many, many years. I remember my shame, as though I had somehow done these things to myself. I remember my absolute inability to coherently share my story with the male(!) officer... so he gave me some paper. Then I was able to choke it out. (I guess writing has always been my method of preference for sharing.)
There were things I had forgotten, but quite a bit I hadn't. That went to show that my mind hadn't done it's job right-- I had been trying to forget everything. It didn't work.
And I remember that, through it all, she was there. She was right there. She loved me anyway.
She believed me.
It's the most precious gift I've ever received.
I've got a job!
regarding: adventure, future, happiness, Juneaux, memories, possibilities, work
Yes, that's right. A real job, with pay and everything!
I've realized, through this summer job hunting process, that I tend to devalue myself. A lot. Especially when it comes to the value of my work.
Anyway, just a passing thought.
So, I'll be working in California for about 4 months. Month #1- travel around to different schools and convince them that our summer camp is thebestplacetobeeverperiod. Months #2-4- work at the summer camp that's thebestplacetobeeverperiod, and prove myself right.
I am excited. After I got hired yesterday, I began to reminisce about my days at Camp Yavapines... and I got super, super excited! To think that I get to help bring those awesome experiences to other kids is just... awesome. Yeah. I'm stoked. And they'll pay me well, which is an answer to a prayer I've been praying for a while now. Finances have been making me nervous, but I think that this job will bring me out even. Whew.
I was so happy on the way home from work today... Just... happy. Happy to be alive. Happy that Juneaux is okay (more or less). Happy that, today, my world is a good place. The sight of the river stretching and winding towards snow-dusted peaks sent my heart soaring and gliding. The blue sky's reflection on the water sent tremors of pure joy through me. The future is unfolding itself before me, and I am... happy. I had so much energy, thinking of all the things I would accomplish today, and all the things I need to get done before I leave for Az (and Ca, now). I was going to do them all! And I wasn't even overwhelmed by all that I needed to do, which is somewhat of a rarity.
Then, when I got home... I was burnt out. Tired. Headache. It felt like my cortisol levels had just totally bottomed out. So, I've rested a bit, and soon I'll meet with J. Then, this evening, I'm going to get some stuff done!
I'm really feeling the time crunch. Time is just slipping through my fingers... there's so much I want to do...
I'm sad to be leaving. I can't believe it's been a year up here already. I love this place. Everything seems so much more beautiful now that I know I'll be gone for a good chunk of time. And who knows where I'll be after this summer? I plan to come back, but it's obvious how quickly plans can change.
I love my family. I'll be lonely, I'm sure. I'm going to miss my youth group terribly. Even skipping one week of racquetball has got me going through withdrawals!
And, apparently, things with this guy I kinda like won't be panning out, after all. I mean, I'll be gone for 5 months. That's a long time. Maybe I'll meet someone in Ca. Maybe he'll "wait for me". (How romantic!) You never know.
(It occurred to me recently that I've been single for 2 years now. That is an unbelievable accomplishment for me. I'm quite proud of myself. I've become a real person, with a separate, unique identity. I can stand on my own. I've proven it now.)
Well... I guess that's all for now... My thoughts have taken off in other directions.
I've realized, through this summer job hunting process, that I tend to devalue myself. A lot. Especially when it comes to the value of my work.
Anyway, just a passing thought.
So, I'll be working in California for about 4 months. Month #1- travel around to different schools and convince them that our summer camp is thebestplacetobeeverperiod. Months #2-4- work at the summer camp that's thebestplacetobeeverperiod, and prove myself right.
I am excited. After I got hired yesterday, I began to reminisce about my days at Camp Yavapines... and I got super, super excited! To think that I get to help bring those awesome experiences to other kids is just... awesome. Yeah. I'm stoked. And they'll pay me well, which is an answer to a prayer I've been praying for a while now. Finances have been making me nervous, but I think that this job will bring me out even. Whew.
I was so happy on the way home from work today... Just... happy. Happy to be alive. Happy that Juneaux is okay (more or less). Happy that, today, my world is a good place. The sight of the river stretching and winding towards snow-dusted peaks sent my heart soaring and gliding. The blue sky's reflection on the water sent tremors of pure joy through me. The future is unfolding itself before me, and I am... happy. I had so much energy, thinking of all the things I would accomplish today, and all the things I need to get done before I leave for Az (and Ca, now). I was going to do them all! And I wasn't even overwhelmed by all that I needed to do, which is somewhat of a rarity.
Then, when I got home... I was burnt out. Tired. Headache. It felt like my cortisol levels had just totally bottomed out. So, I've rested a bit, and soon I'll meet with J. Then, this evening, I'm going to get some stuff done!
I'm really feeling the time crunch. Time is just slipping through my fingers... there's so much I want to do...
I'm sad to be leaving. I can't believe it's been a year up here already. I love this place. Everything seems so much more beautiful now that I know I'll be gone for a good chunk of time. And who knows where I'll be after this summer? I plan to come back, but it's obvious how quickly plans can change.
I love my family. I'll be lonely, I'm sure. I'm going to miss my youth group terribly. Even skipping one week of racquetball has got me going through withdrawals!
And, apparently, things with this guy I kinda like won't be panning out, after all. I mean, I'll be gone for 5 months. That's a long time. Maybe I'll meet someone in Ca. Maybe he'll "wait for me". (How romantic!) You never know.
(It occurred to me recently that I've been single for 2 years now. That is an unbelievable accomplishment for me. I'm quite proud of myself. I've become a real person, with a separate, unique identity. I can stand on my own. I've proven it now.)
Well... I guess that's all for now... My thoughts have taken off in other directions.
It's nice to be kneaded.
regarding: God, heartbreak, Juneaux, love, pain, ponderings, questions, relationships
Is it bad that I don't like those "Christian" sayings? I find myself rolling my eyes sometimes. For instance, this small exchange...
*facebook pic of my friend's bright blue eye*
Girl: Wow, your eye is beautiful!
Friend: They are only truly beautiful when they are on Jesus. :)
The worst part is... I bet she really means it. But my first response is, "Ugh. Okay, whatever."
It's not that I don't believe in God. It's not even that I don't love Him. (I want to, and I try, but I'm not sure that what I have to offer counts as love.) I'm just burnt out on christianityism. You know... looking and acting and sounding "christian". Maybe it's more pronounced because I come from a denomination that urges its members to "be separate from the world"... and as a result you end up with a whole culture in and of itself. The particular subculture I found myself in prides itself on its ability to deflect any statement of personal worth and value.
"You did a good job." "Oh, praise the Lord!"
"You look nice today." "Praise God."
"You're a good person. That was very nice of you." "It's only because of Jesus."
Just take the stinking compliment, already!!!
*End Rant*
That being said, I have been reflecting this morning on how risky love is.
My cat is limping very pronouncedly. (This is related, I promise.) I can tell he's hurting. But I already took him to the vet for this once, and they couldn't find a problem. Now, the limp is worse (I've been watching it for some time), and I feel like I'm being stabbed through the heart when I watch him make his pitiful way towards me. I don't care how little I have in savings. I'll spend it all, even if I have to skip my trip to Az, to make sure my cat is healthy.
The thing is, Juneaux is more than a cat to me... he's my son. My baby boy. Flesh of my flesh and bone of my bone. Sure, we speak different languages. Sure, he's a lot hairier than I am. Sure, we're different species. But God brought him to me when I was so hurting and broken... so doubting of the nature of love... so unsure whether it was even worth trying this "love" thing with God...
And then I found Juneaux. He has been my delight, my comfort, my laughter, my satisfaction... he's been there for basically my entire healing process. His antics bring me joy. His purring and kneading soothe my soul. (It is, after all, nice to be kneaded. Hah!) He's... a part of me.
So now, I find my son in pain, and it hurts me. I want to make him better. (I'll be calling the vet as soon as I'm done here-- they've just opened.)
And I'm scared. What if this is a sign of something bigger wrong with him? What if he just gets worse and worse? What if they can't figure out what's wrong with him? What if he.... dies?
I read a statement by a fellow Christian recently. It said, "Whatever you fear the most will inevitably come to pass."
What a crappy outlook on life. But I'm afraid it's true. (Hah. Afraid it's true... so if it is, it would inevitably be true simply because I'm afraid it is true, and... never mind.) So I'm begging God to let me keep my cat. Just the thought of losing him is torturous.
And so I see what a precarious place love is. With love comes need. It necessitates risk. What if this, what if that? What if the loved one chooses not to love back?
I think of this as I see a potential relationship in front of me. If this thing moves forward... if love grows... it will involve risk. Any relationship that entails love is risky.
C and I took that risk... and I walked away. It shattered both of us, but it had to be done.
I think of this as I look at God. He says he loves us. He says he loves me. This puts him in a position of risk. If he loves me, and I walk away... it is painful. To both of us. I may not realize the pain as swiftly and keenly (it has a way of spreading itself out and seeping through the different aspects of life), but we both hurt.
Does God see me the same way that I see Juneaux? Feeling the weight of my pain in his chest, wanting to make it better... if only I will let him... and doing everything he can to make sure that I won't walk away, because he doesn't want me to... ??
Sounds awesome. God, are you really like that? Is that how you feel about me?
*facebook pic of my friend's bright blue eye*
Girl: Wow, your eye is beautiful!
Friend: They are only truly beautiful when they are on Jesus. :)
The worst part is... I bet she really means it. But my first response is, "Ugh. Okay, whatever."
It's not that I don't believe in God. It's not even that I don't love Him. (I want to, and I try, but I'm not sure that what I have to offer counts as love.) I'm just burnt out on christianityism. You know... looking and acting and sounding "christian". Maybe it's more pronounced because I come from a denomination that urges its members to "be separate from the world"... and as a result you end up with a whole culture in and of itself. The particular subculture I found myself in prides itself on its ability to deflect any statement of personal worth and value.
"You did a good job." "Oh, praise the Lord!"
"You look nice today." "Praise God."
"You're a good person. That was very nice of you." "It's only because of Jesus."
Just take the stinking compliment, already!!!
*End Rant*
That being said, I have been reflecting this morning on how risky love is.
My cat is limping very pronouncedly. (This is related, I promise.) I can tell he's hurting. But I already took him to the vet for this once, and they couldn't find a problem. Now, the limp is worse (I've been watching it for some time), and I feel like I'm being stabbed through the heart when I watch him make his pitiful way towards me. I don't care how little I have in savings. I'll spend it all, even if I have to skip my trip to Az, to make sure my cat is healthy.
The thing is, Juneaux is more than a cat to me... he's my son. My baby boy. Flesh of my flesh and bone of my bone. Sure, we speak different languages. Sure, he's a lot hairier than I am. Sure, we're different species. But God brought him to me when I was so hurting and broken... so doubting of the nature of love... so unsure whether it was even worth trying this "love" thing with God...
And then I found Juneaux. He has been my delight, my comfort, my laughter, my satisfaction... he's been there for basically my entire healing process. His antics bring me joy. His purring and kneading soothe my soul. (It is, after all, nice to be kneaded. Hah!) He's... a part of me.
So now, I find my son in pain, and it hurts me. I want to make him better. (I'll be calling the vet as soon as I'm done here-- they've just opened.)
And I'm scared. What if this is a sign of something bigger wrong with him? What if he just gets worse and worse? What if they can't figure out what's wrong with him? What if he.... dies?
I read a statement by a fellow Christian recently. It said, "Whatever you fear the most will inevitably come to pass."
What a crappy outlook on life. But I'm afraid it's true. (Hah. Afraid it's true... so if it is, it would inevitably be true simply because I'm afraid it is true, and... never mind.) So I'm begging God to let me keep my cat. Just the thought of losing him is torturous.
And so I see what a precarious place love is. With love comes need. It necessitates risk. What if this, what if that? What if the loved one chooses not to love back?
I think of this as I see a potential relationship in front of me. If this thing moves forward... if love grows... it will involve risk. Any relationship that entails love is risky.
C and I took that risk... and I walked away. It shattered both of us, but it had to be done.
I think of this as I look at God. He says he loves us. He says he loves me. This puts him in a position of risk. If he loves me, and I walk away... it is painful. To both of us. I may not realize the pain as swiftly and keenly (it has a way of spreading itself out and seeping through the different aspects of life), but we both hurt.
Does God see me the same way that I see Juneaux? Feeling the weight of my pain in his chest, wanting to make it better... if only I will let him... and doing everything he can to make sure that I won't walk away, because he doesn't want me to... ??
Sounds awesome. God, are you really like that? Is that how you feel about me?
