What Freedom Feels Like
The patchwork quilt lays quietly in ripples across the sea of grass growing wildly and abundantly into the sky.
The breeze swirls and dances through the peach fuzz on my arms. Sunshine seeps into my soul and feels like being baptized in God's love.
I breathe in the honeysuckle sweetness and breath out the toxicity poisoning my spirit. The heaviness that bearing the weights of my world impales into my heart.
This world is beautiful. But broken.
I am broken. By my own sin. By others' sin.
In my brokenness, I pick up the pieces and clumsily tape them back together. Like trying to mend the pieces of remaining flesh after a lion has feasted on his prey.
Believing that it must be done before it can be a living sacrifice, holy and pleasing to God. Before the spiritual act of worship.
But duct tape and clumsy hands cannot repair. The heart is too complex, too essential, too. . .
Broken. Shattered. Incinerated. Obliterated.
Pieces too small for human eyes and hands to maneuver.
It is God's work. His hands, small. And big.
His eyes see.
The Great Physician heals. Whole. Complete.
And so, I stop frantically searching for pieces. Trying to hide and heal what is broken.
Leave the mess where it lies.
Open heart wide.
Offer it up. Whole. Entire. The most mangled, deeply rooted and disgusting parts.
Hide nothing. Bare it.
And let God work.
Let His light seep into my soul and His breath tickle my skin.
Breath Him in, breathe me out.