Here’s an old piece that never made it from Tumblr to here. Whoops.
Beautiful things out of dust have been made before, and perhaps I am one of them, just another one of us dusts from dusts. Verses of old and Scripture have told me so, and the Lord knows more than I that my significance is above me in the clouds and not down here in the dirty dust, even though that’s where I’m from and from ashes to ashes, I burn and return. I write as I breathe, subsistence and luxury in one swift move, a blessing and a curse, too, because just like my sick body, my writing is stricken with thorns and thistles, but the pretty kinds with flowers, too, and somehow, I met people in my life who’ve bled from the thorns and still embraced the flower.
In the summer, the sun keeps me warm and relaxed at all the wrong times—my skin smooth, moisturized, and baked, and for a few untimely moments, I’m sleepy, comfortable, restful, but when the sun goes down, my mind is sharp and contradictory—I don’t sleep. My mind writes and forges plots that carry me outside of myself as hard as I try to come back home. That’s kind of how I am—contradictory and stubborn, unwilling but longing for acquiescence.
My prayers for respite are answered, always, but not always precisely, and for that, I am thankful and resentful all at once because I’m a sinner and a saint and know Him and don’t know Him at the same time. And He keeps me around because He finds me intriguing and worthwhile. Verses of old and Scripture told me so, and I for one have found them to be quite so.
The ring on my left hand reminds me that a great man loves me, keeps me grounded—as if, floating or flying, I could forget. I never forget how much he loves me, never will. I do forget how great it is that he does, though, and then I see my ring glisten even in the dark, or it scratches against my dry skin in my shallow, sleepless slumber and I remember: he loves me and my scars that are not really scars—not deep or bleeding or even once-bleeding—but are more like fibers of pain and sickness hidden beneath my youth and hard work that weigh me down and transfer onto his already-laden burdens. But this man and I? We are walking along a road that is leading us forward, not backward. And even if I fell and cursed this man who loves me for my poor state, he would pick me up and carry me without complaint.
I love to learn, but I say things like I know them even when I don’t, and sometimes I wish I could eat my words or stick my foot in my mouth literally, not figuratively, but I have angels for friends and they love me anyway. You can’t see their wings just like you can’t see my pangs, but they’re there nonetheless. They remind me why I’m here: Life is worth the effort, and some days, the effort is so miniscule, but at least it’s there even if no one can see it. It all comes down to how much you care about what you’re doing, and if you don’t care at all, that’s what people see.
If God were one of us, I think He’d take the time to have a cup of coffee with me and tell me he loves me—not because I’m his favorite, but because I think he’d do so for all of us. He might even buy me a scone, even if he were feeling pretty crappy or had a meeting at work or even if he didn’t really like the kinda stuff I did, and—I dunno—I think we should all give that a shot.