I have heartache…
Every time I stop to think, I feel pangs in my chest.
Sometimes I feel weaker than I am…
I sense I can’t handle life with these two hands.
These hands have built so little and yet, abandoned a lot.
They’ve wiped many tears and written many fears.
My hands have worked up enough muscle to make me strong.
But why do I still feel weak inside.
My insides are soft.
A direct contrast to my outsides…
they’re rough and figureless-
Maybe that’s why I’ve not developed my insides – I don’t know.
I prefer not to think. Thoughts make me age to my bones and my bones are weary of the very blood that flows around and in them.
My arms are tired of bearing my weight up
my feet are exhausted from trying to move in a direction
that my brain can’t figure out is the right one
My heart is heavy.
My soul is distraught.
But in my spirit is hope.
There is hope inside my brokenness-
It was in the eye of my heartache that I found my pieces.
Scattered, fragmented pieces of me.
In the heartache, in the brokenness- I found God.