I keep running into Psalm 139:23a and the words create a havoc of images in my mind: "Search me, O God, and know my heart" (ESV).
The first image is birthed out of this concept of my heart. I see the organ that pumps blood. Filled with the desire to hold my heart out to God, my hands cup around my heart, held out.
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I was determined to stay away from resolutions and hopes and goals at the beginning of the new year. I'm the type of person who plans extensively with much idealism welling in my heart that I will be able to make my hopes happen, only to plummet on day two. But we're three days into the year, and already everything is different.
My breath dragged through my lungs, slow, scraping. The sound of it filled my head. More fully than the air filled my lungs. My chest felt heavy with the leaden, staggering motion.
Painstakingly, I pulled. It felt like I was gathering my very lifesource with every ounce of my strength. How had this ritual I practiced every moment of my life never had this much weight before? I could hear the tension between life and death in every breath I inhaled. The floor was not clean. Stretching my legs on the tile, I glanced up again at the screen above the check-in desk. My plane would start boarding in forty-eight minutes.
My gut gripped. First time flying alone. First time even in an airport alone. Well, not actually alone, but surrounded by strangers. A couple sat against the wall a few feet away. Rows of seats held clusters of people waiting—talking, eating, scrolling. The honesty came in the slowness of the day.
I had known the truth for a few days, was sitting in it, waiting for the reality to settle. I would never have seen it had God not gently revealed it to me, impressed it upon me. For the moment, I just wanted to carry the knowledge for a while. But, as it usually happens, the truth slowly let loose its grasp around my heart to spill free. Her spirit awoke when she sat, laptop out, fingers playing on the keyboard. When her imagination made reality on the page. Words took form: people, places, events, lives—all strung together in her mind. All balancing precariously in her fingertips. All finding a new home on the page.
Two tables are pulled together, chairs pushed around. Room for everyone. Some faces are light with expectation, elbows on the table, smiles bright. Other expressions are soft with contentment. We lean back in our chairs, breathing in the chill air of evening in the city.
It all comes back to fear.
That's what I've been noticing, realizing. My struggles, insecurities, decisions—all are grown out of fear. To be honest, I love fear, so much. It protects me and keeps me safe. Trust? Trust hurts. Trust means vulnerability and dependency and openness. And hurt can find its way into each of those things Father, I just want to tell You all the things on my mind. Because I’ve been in my head excessively—it’s oppressing me and causing anxiety.
I want to give these thoughts over to You—let You hold them, take care of them: “Cast your cares," You tell me. I grip these thoughts, like seeds in my hands, closed fists. Tiny and rough in my palms. I want to open and hold everything out to You, surrendered. I can remember sitting in my closet, begging the tears to come as memories with my best friend shrouded my mind. Just moments before, I had waved goodbye, knowing it was the last time I would see her.
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AuthorAn idealist on a quest for beauty in the mess and hope in the darkness, Alyssa seeks to capture the moments of bliss, lamentation, and inward struggle to ultimately glimpse the goodness and meaning behind it all. Archives
January 2020
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