i could feel the closing in as i made my way through the e-mail. it was something simple - an observation made through a short story about a society purposefully ignoring pain.
sacrifices have to be made one of the students said. he was in war. four of his team died. he repeated the phrase, commenting on the child turned it in the story. i don't have a problem with the child locked up - sacrifices have to be made. i mean, Christ died for us, right?
my breath catches. please. not this.
there's a scene in my manuscript where my protagonist speaks of her obsession with the morning sky. new colors woven together means new beginnings - and the ripping of gold through a black dark forces people to turn and stare.
for a brief moment, people cannot ignore the tearing - even if it's the sky. for a brief moment, the sky begs us to listen.
when i wrote this scene, i didn't know i was writing my own story. i didn't know my heart ached for someone to see and know and not turn away. i didn't know the impact of those who walked away.
but i do now. i know the deep valley stretching for more of His presence. i feel the pulsing of my heartbeat strain to keep up with the running and pruning and falling and breathing. and i see the tears of One who echo my own. this is not what i meant for you, He tells me when i'm woken with bone ache memory. and my heart stone turns flesh under His hand.
the wounds i experience are not okay - but it draws me to Him. this, He craves.
and if i could, i'd look my friend's student in the eye. i'd ask him to tell me it's okay. i'd ask him to know my history and nod his head and say, yes. i have no problems with your hurt. i agree with your pain locked up - raw and aching.
maybe, after telling him about my own ripping, after forcing him to turn and watch the sun-reds streak across my own darkness, he would not walk away.