Picture this: a thief breaks into your home and steals nearly everything you own. You are devastated, and all you can see are the things that have been taken from you. As the dark days go by following this tragic event, you begin to notice small things around the house that you did not buy. They are simple. Seemingly of no consequence. Some are practical, while others are impractical but carry meaning and beauty.
Rather than be filled with fear, I want to hide in the cleft of the Rock, I want to take shelter beneath His wings, I want to run to Him to make Him my strong tower, my fortress. How do I do that?
See, suffering for me is not a matter of fairness, but rather an honor. God has chosen me for the difficult mission. The dangerous one. The one with great glory and reward and joy at the end. (Even though I want all glory to go to Him because He deserves it!) "For this light momentary affliction is preparing for us an eternal weight of glory beyond all comparison." (2 Corinthians 4:17)
It's made me realize how important it is to just talk. And to do it face to face. To feel safe. To know there's zero judgment. To actually look into someone's eyes and know without a doubt that they're listening with every fiber of their being.
The pen really is mightier than the sword. At least, it is for me. But when I was young, before I had learned my letters or read a word...it was music.
Another poem about that one word.
Depression is more like grief. It's a crushed feeling. A grinding into dust. A shattering. A grating apart like flour forced through a sifter. A parasitic tapeworm of the soul. A weight on my chest, so heavy I can hardly breathe, producing the panic of an asthma attack, as if I am about to die.