Photo courtesy of ALTARWORK
I lie in bed between the realms of subconscious and awake. Cocooned under covers, eyes closed in the darkness of the room, curtain tight against the late rising sun. At first, I thought I was stirred by my stomach, wretched unknown illness plaguing me for weeks. But my stomach makes no noise. Only my mind, a will of its own.
Words, from a year and a half, more than that now—twenty-two months—of wrestling with my God and falling apart, falling deeper into myself, and I understand what must be said. No life story, no microscopic observation of poetic details of the day, but the rumble of my universe, cosmic thunder within. The struggles that never seem to end with my move, my faith, myself. All in the city that burns.
This is breaking point between two halves—all I used to know, all that raised me and drew me in my Wisconsin persona, and all that is strange and unfamiliar to my bones. I am two halves cut clean through. And though I do not know what all to say, I trust that words will come as I need them. And I trust my God will give them to me, because I am learning to believe in His untamed, unregulated character. The one that is as raw as my own soul, scratched like sandpaper hard for three years.
I am no stranger to pain. And somewhere hiding deep inside, I am no stranger to pleasure as well. There I must strain to find the balance, the scales steady across my palm. What I have known of hurt and aloneness, I must also have known of joy and intimacy.
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