May Showers
It's happening again. Always around this time of year. Losing control of emotions. Losing emotions. Self-destructive behavior. Why does it always happen now? Damn my high F on the Meyers-Brigg. Why do I have this great need to feel? At least my body is becoming more fit and better-looking because of it.
The Hunger Games trilogy did not help. What kind of third book is that? It's just not right.
My T should still be ranked pretty high, though, because I'm not sure if anyone can compete with the number of thoughts that race through my head each day. Hundreds. Maybe thousands. And they all go nowhere. Start nowhere, and end in a dead end.
It's a time of change again. Transition. I don't know what these changes entail or how God wants to mold me now, but I always find myself saying I want to let Him do His work, and then give into full resistance. Not as if I'm dragged into change, kicking and screaming, but I also don't help Him along. What if He's getting tired of dragging my limp soul and working on such an unmoldable me?
While driving home the other day, I remember the grieving process: denial, pain, anger, acceptance, moving forward. Is that right? I don't remember anymore, but I must still be somewhere between denial and pain, because sometimes the tears come in bucketfuls. Then there are days of emptiness and just wishing I could be held in his arms one more time, wondering if things haven't changed, thinking that I can stroll right up to his door, call him to come down and open it for me, and just spend the day by his side - cooking, laughing, talking with our stuffed animals, watching him play games, holding him, being held. And then there are days where I just remember. Days like this one. All I can do is remember and then give up.
I wanted to post about something important - much more substantial than this - but it doesn't come to mind anymore. Something about giving my heart to Jesus. Maybe it was just that. I need to give my heart to Jesus. Well, there's more than that, because the problem is I've been looking for someone to give it to since Jason. Scoping out every single male I meet. To whom can I entrust my whole heart again? I almost feel like thrusting it into the next guy's face, but no one even wants it. I've made a pretty devastating mistake of trying to give part of it to one very wrong boy, and now have to face the difficult ordeal of taking even that one piece back. As I've been learning the hard way, I really am a serial committer.
Jesus has asked for my heart again, and, I realize, for the first time, I'm hesitant to give it to Him. Why? He's the only person who's trustworthy enough not only to not break it or damage it. In fact, He's the only one who can repair it and give it life again. So what's wrong with me? Sometimes I imagine Jesus doing heart surgery on me, pulling out a black, un-moving heart from my chest and taking a brand new one that is beating red with life and putting it back in - His own. A grotesquely beautiful picture in my mind, but one that I don't seem to want to actually be in. Why can't I say yes?
The Hunger Games trilogy did not help. What kind of third book is that? It's just not right.
My T should still be ranked pretty high, though, because I'm not sure if anyone can compete with the number of thoughts that race through my head each day. Hundreds. Maybe thousands. And they all go nowhere. Start nowhere, and end in a dead end.
It's a time of change again. Transition. I don't know what these changes entail or how God wants to mold me now, but I always find myself saying I want to let Him do His work, and then give into full resistance. Not as if I'm dragged into change, kicking and screaming, but I also don't help Him along. What if He's getting tired of dragging my limp soul and working on such an unmoldable me?
While driving home the other day, I remember the grieving process: denial, pain, anger, acceptance, moving forward. Is that right? I don't remember anymore, but I must still be somewhere between denial and pain, because sometimes the tears come in bucketfuls. Then there are days of emptiness and just wishing I could be held in his arms one more time, wondering if things haven't changed, thinking that I can stroll right up to his door, call him to come down and open it for me, and just spend the day by his side - cooking, laughing, talking with our stuffed animals, watching him play games, holding him, being held. And then there are days where I just remember. Days like this one. All I can do is remember and then give up.
I wanted to post about something important - much more substantial than this - but it doesn't come to mind anymore. Something about giving my heart to Jesus. Maybe it was just that. I need to give my heart to Jesus. Well, there's more than that, because the problem is I've been looking for someone to give it to since Jason. Scoping out every single male I meet. To whom can I entrust my whole heart again? I almost feel like thrusting it into the next guy's face, but no one even wants it. I've made a pretty devastating mistake of trying to give part of it to one very wrong boy, and now have to face the difficult ordeal of taking even that one piece back. As I've been learning the hard way, I really am a serial committer.
Jesus has asked for my heart again, and, I realize, for the first time, I'm hesitant to give it to Him. Why? He's the only person who's trustworthy enough not only to not break it or damage it. In fact, He's the only one who can repair it and give it life again. So what's wrong with me? Sometimes I imagine Jesus doing heart surgery on me, pulling out a black, un-moving heart from my chest and taking a brand new one that is beating red with life and putting it back in - His own. A grotesquely beautiful picture in my mind, but one that I don't seem to want to actually be in. Why can't I say yes?