You go about your life; the plain, the ordinary until a moment where your existence collides with the words ‘abdominal mass’ and you begin to wonder.

You wonder whose life you are living in this moment of disbelief. You wonder how this can happen at 28 years old and a week and what it can mean. You wonder if those two words will determine whether you will ever be married. You wonder how having children may escape you despite loving the little humans as they walk by, hand in hand with their look-a-like parents. You wonder if there will ever be any mini-you.You wonder what your own kids could look like and weep at the uncertainty of their existence. You begin to feel utterly alone in your waiting existence.

pexels-photo-7773Your first thought is cancer. That despicable C word that has left a bad taste in your mouth. Already this year it’s claimed your mother’s breasts, her womanhood, and you wonder what it could claim from you.

You walk around the city, a zombie in human clothing and wonder some more. You wonder about your faith and call everything you’ve ever known into question. You walk about, feeling queasy and allow ten thousand scenarios play through your mind. You ask yourself “Why is it that God wants to hurt me? Why does He want to utterly destroy those I love?” despite not believing these things in your head. But between the head and heart is a good 12 inches. Its a vast conglomeration of mazes by which what you know has to travel to what you feel and so you wonder if your faith ever really was true to you or just a lie you comforted yourself in believing. You wonder what happened to the good God you once knew. You wonder if He is as good as you once thought, then why could you possibly be going through this?

You wonder and you ponder and churn on the inside like a factory burning coals day and night. And yet, amid the vast despair of not knowing, there is an odd sense of calmness, a deep set peace. A panic-less presence that somehow invades in the madness and you know. You know its God. Somehow, you know on the inside no matter the outcome, it will be okay. Yet, there are about a hundred thousands doubts between then and now. You go back and forth between trust and vomiting ten thousand times as you wait to hear an outcome.

img_2331Some weeks and a few thousand dollars later you discover the “mass”is a benign cyst. It’s not the C-word, though a c-word for sure. You begin to eat and taste food again and sleep at night. Yet, there is no going back. There is no gong back to the carefree person you were before this fire, this breach against your own person. It’s Like a betrayal. A betrayal against yourself that you have no control over.

Yet, despite the thousand lives you’ve lived in 3 weeks, you find that truly you do not want to be who you were before. You do not want to go back because despite the utter detestability of the situation, you’ve learned so much about yourself, about your faith, and even about God. And you begin to wonder again. You wonder how it is that He brought certain people into your life just recently and just in time to carry you over this threshold of despair. You wonder if He knew that you would need those powerhouse people  and put them in your path on purpose. All of a sudden, the ‘chance meetings’ are not so chanced and that gives everything a whole new meaning. You are thus reminded of the all-powerful God, who watches closely your existence not from afar and provides for all your needs ahead of time. And you begin to wonder again.

You wonder why He is the One who chose you since the beginning of time to be here, to live in the now, and made a path before your feet even when there was none. He is the God of miracles, the God who sees you despite your meagerness in the vast expanseless universe.

He is the one who carves a way out of stone and brings dead things to life. So on this journey called life I will put my hand in his and walk with Daddy, because He is a good good father who does not destroy those He holds dear. He gives us the strength to walk through the fire when it is lapping at our feet, even when it’s hard, even when we think we can’t survive, He makes a way. So I will make it a point to trust where I can’t see and live believing the best is yet to come. img_2422

 

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Mass Wonderings, The Best is Yet to Come…

Blades of Grass

Morning DewI once heard a story about a house sitting on top of a field.When it was torn down after hundreds of years, without anyone planting, without anyone interfering a small poppy bud grew out of the ashes. The seed had been dormant below the house for 200 hundred years. In a matter of weeks grass was flourishing and a poppy field grew. The inherent power of life flows in every speckle of every bud, every blade. Nature regenerates and nothing can stop it because it is the inherent word of God. Way back when God said “let there be…” there was. His word creates. It is life. 

 

Pure magic.

A miracle in plain sight.

an ordinary blade of grass, common as the seasons that flow

one into another, predictable as sun and moon rising and falling.

 

The blades of grass,

each one its own singular solitary self,

a lone life amid the masses of singular buds, heads tilted upwards

into the heavens soaking in the invisible rays of light.

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A blade of grass is power.

An ancient power as old as time.

It is the power of a word.

When God created the world, he spoke it into being.

 

God speaks and grass grows.

Its power, pure and simple.

A power, deep and grand as the world has ever known.

Its grows and regenerates without interference.

 

That is power.

That is magic.

 

 

 

 

 

Posted in Creative writing, Inspiration

Tales and Stories

“Fairy tales since the beginning of recorded time, and perhaps earlier, have been ‘a means to conquer the terrors of mankind through metaphor’.”― Jack Zipes

girl-354579_1920Many people tend to think that made up stories are good for nothing, that they have no power or influence. They are just for kids. Bedtime stories. They are useless, worthless. And those people could not be more wrong. It is on the pages of tales, fairy or realistic fiction, even science fiction that you can learn how to slay your dragons.

In stories you gain understandings on what fear is, how different people react to fear. You gain insight into the feelings of others, whether different or similar to yours. That can either produce understanding, a sense of united-ness. Or of hope. Of feeling like you are not so alone in your alone-ness.

It’s not the actual words on the pages that mean something, but the meaning behind them. Stories, for the most part, are layered. They are like cake. You have sponge, you have cream, you have fruit, you have icing. Each individual favor and texture is unique and yet needed to complement each other to make a great cake.

I once read The Metamorphosis by Franz Kafka (originally in German). It’s a basic sic-fi classic from 1915. He begins a slow process of turning into an insect one day upon waking up until he fully is unknown to his family and himself. Now, we could leave it at that, but you’d miss so much in just reading the story for itself, like I did that first time.

In reality, Kafka was making a social commentary on the heavy industrialization and thus the changing world from what had been known for hundreds of years (that and many other issues). But he explains how he feel in this ‘new world’. He feels like a bug in his own shoes. An insect that is despised and cast out by society for having original thoughts.

stocksnap_bp49zc36deLayers. That’s what makes a story great. That’s what creates connection between writer and his/her audience and that is important. It is highly amazing to feel a common emotion with people across the country, the world. People you’ve never met. People who are different from you, who have an experience completely opposite you-and yet, you can see and understand through stories that you are, at the root of everything, quite the same- that as humans, we ARE basically the same.

That is important. That is beautiful. So read the tales, but don’t just leave it there. Feel the stories, let the tales run deep through you and into others.

 

Evening Walks

The evening is  cool. Crickets are chirping lightly, their night song commencing, slowing down the rhythm of the day.

The winds are whispering in their glorious soft tones of breath. The repentant grasses of summer are still, awaiting the autumnal glories to arrive. Each patch growing this way and that in conglomerations of no direction.

The path is worn beneath my feet. The loose gravel churned underfoot a hundred thousand times.

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In the trees above my head birds are chirping their singular melodies. I am content in this plain delicious evening, taking in all the beauties of nature, as my boots churn the familiar paths once more.