Come Back, I Want To Say Goodbye.

Why don't you exist to me anymore? Your idea lingers behind my eyes but never make it to my life. The thought of your name still brings a savory lust for the times of past to my lips, and yet I can never taste them. I wish I knew I wish I could hear what you would say. Honest be, to me you are a ghost of rosen glass. The dye must go at last, you should know you hold that key. My best memory from you is the smile that sighed something I knew I could never have. If words could kill, that 'if' would slip as smooth as silk into my side. And if I thought of you, what then? And if you said a word, what then? And if I came to call, what then? Would I see the years' work on our photograph hanging in your memory? Perhaps sunlight has faded the colors to gray, or darkness has preserved them in its own gross static.
I wait for the day you come back to the world. When I hear your voice over the telephone, I'll believe. When I see your smile hiding in front of me, you will be real. And when I feel your distance once again, you will be gone forever, and I will be able to sleep.

Poison enters my life stream tonight, slick as a knife, cool as metal settles into my veins. The quick desecration of ego slits a quick nick in self perception. It never seems to hurt at first, always over-estimating the ability to 'handle the truth.' Yet it haunts. And as the thought lingers and stains the brain around it, all you have left is an ink stained mind with the words of condescension. Blood boils with frustration of the... truth? Flaws explode on the screen behind my eyes and parade through every word. Truth? A truth. Someone's truth.
And as the ink flows through my fingers and into pixels on the page, I breath. I reason. I ration. I think. I sink into relative calm. The peace from before will not be gotten for a length to come, but for now, rest. For now, rest.

On sighs and the art of being tired

My latest pinup! I call it: ruthless slumber-luster. One of a kind folks, that’s right. It’s that piece that makes you twist your head and be very very unsure of what it even is. Quality here, people.

God, I’m so sleepy. I haven’t gotten good sleep in at least 3 nights. The first night was late at UtL, then woken up early in the morning by a low blood sugar, the second night was at the Asbury house (with the JJ, asthma, wheezing, and all) and last night was here at the dorm, trapped in a demented and stress filled dream where the only thing I could hear was my own voice going ‘What is wrong with my head? What is wrong with my brain? What is wrong? What is wrong?” because of how warped everything looked. (Also a low blood sugar should be added on top of that)  All I’ve wanted all freaking day was a nap, was a bit of rest, but now, at 1am when I’m SUPPOSED to be asleep ANYWAYS, I can’t even seem to manage it. My eyes drift themselves to assume the dreamiest, but sleep just dodges me like oil dodges water! Perhaps I could convince it? Let us see.

And they shall see visions…

The family sat around the room talking idly about the day, the dog, and what had come out of both. Jay jay lay between Sveta and Angie, gnawing at his own paw. I mentioned that it’s probably not a good sign and, since the conversation had taken on a dark tone, Dad muttered “It’s the dog equivalent to cutting.” I threw him a sharp glance and shook my head.

“Not ok.”

Soon we both gravitated to the kitchen and he looked in the fridge. Amid the freshly stocked shelves of produce, odds, and ends, there lied two cups of rice pudding left. Now, this delicacy is hard to keep in stock in our house, so my father had been keeping tabs on it even more closely than that of the fruit and cider.

“HOW do we only have two left?” A metallic edge slipped into his voice.

“There are others behind those. They’re probably scattered.” My voice started to take on his own shade.

“Yeah, One.”

“Ok dad, chill.” Came the automatic response to over-reaction.

My father’s stature angled and his face darkened. “Chill is not the phrase when speaking to your father. There’s a difference between me and your friend. That was entirely disrespectful.”

I reeled as I weighed the truth of this statement (which was quite heavy) and tried to appoligize while still explaining why I had said it. None of this, apparently, was coherent until the last ditch effort.

“I’m not the only one who’s been disrespectful tonight.”

”Excuse me?”

Back track. “I’m not trying to make an excuse, I’m just saying that I’m not the only one here. I know that I was wrong, but-“

It went on. Not long, but I didn’t know what I was saying or trying to say by the end of the sentence. All I remember was

“You know, you’ve been a lot surlier as of late.” or something to that effect. The train of boiling temper left behind was almost visible.

I am mad. I am frustrated. I have venom on my lips that’s just waiting to be administered. I excuse myself to my room, turn on the bathroom vent and some music, and cry. I cry and cry and think of everything I possibly can to cry about since it never seems to happen when I need it to. Thoughts drifted to my past, my mother, and my father. The knife still left in my heart as he left and seemed to never come back was suddenly visible and ached. The idealistic hero of my story had slowly dropped his cape and become mortal. His temper tapers into a razor’s blade, able to cut just the surface of its victim, even with a simple sentence could fillet a tomato without it even knowing.

It is so much like my own.

One by one the things I could say to my father to tear him to pieces presented themselves. The menace danced in my head and blades loosed free in the experimental swing. It would feel so good to let my fury take the best of me, to let out my anger in the most natural way it craves. It would, however, devastate my father. Some things you cannot take back, right? I’ve always known that and always held my tongue. My blade did nothing to my mother, since she was a battered stone that heard, saw, and said nothing of consequence. There’s no satisfaction if there is no bite.

Slowly my mind turned to a more physical expression. Ever since my mentor Justine had shown me kickboxing against a sandbag I’ve craved the time to do it. My mind lingered in the gym she took me to, plastic grass under my bare feet and my hands already secure in their wrappings. What combinations would I use to release my energy and assert my bitterness? Right, Left, Right, Hook, Round house. Right, left, right, hook, round house. Left, right, right… wait-

Within the empty level of the building came a small boy, of perhaps 5 or 6, wandering towards me. He tilted his head and watched my pointedly ignoring movements. I concentrated on the bag and my own thoughts of my father and what it meant that I wanted to take them out in this way.

“What are you doing?”

Sigh. “Beating this piece of leather.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m frustrated.”

“At who?”

“My father. I have been for a very long time and I’m getting it out this way instead of-“ ‘Instead of beating him up’ came to my mind, but that didn’t seem appropriate for this audience. “staying mad and angry.”

“But if you’ve been mad and angry for this long, what does this do?”

“It’s temporary, but it helps.” Right hook, left round house once, twice. Guard.

He stared for a while longer. “Do you want to stay mad at your daddy?”

I tried to put it simply for a child. “This is the type of frustration-“ I ran through my mind what I could say, what would be the truth. What was I going to say, that some anger you need to keep for a while to heal? That’s bull, especially with my father. Was it? It doesn’t matter, I can’t tell a kid that. What do I say? That it feels good to let it burn? “It’s not ok to keep anger pent up inside, so I’m trying to find a way to let it out.”

“But you don’t want to be mad at him.”

“No. I don’t.” By this time I had relaxed and let the boy talk without even trying to guess his next words. I left him blank and he filled in the words. This was not in my mind, and I knew it. Even so, I was thinking of how to treat him to ice cream for being such a dear.

“Can I pray with you?”

“Sure.” I smiled.

“Jesus, thank you for this lady Brynn and what she’s doing. She’s trying real hard to do good by you God. Please give her wisdom with dis and help her to not be angry. I love you God. In Jesus’ name, Amen.” He looked up at me and smiled.

The words felt powerful and true. They brought me peace and a will to revisit the question of anger from my usual peaceful state. “Thank you! That’s was very sweet of you.”

He nodded. “Alright, come on now mommy.”

Reality broke. “What?”

“It’s time to go home now, mommy, come on. Let’s go get ice cream like you said you would.” He took my hand and led me toward the stairwell.

Rambles

Says the clock tick tock goes running down the hill hand in hand with the spoon and flying off at will to the castle in the sky by and by who’s to kill the time goes tick tock tick tock all the way to see the seer who knew the sea, who wants to have her bonnie lass to be- her new best friend from the sky and in the end she will go running running down to see what music she is spraying from the tide and when she cries oh dear, she cries, to hear the lovely voice of salt and air, of sun and moon that shines from there, what lovelier voice to hear from here than that of the depths herself?

Why not give from the depths of the soul? In the midst of the chest and organs, tangled twix veins and blood, arteries and lust, flowing and wanting, pulsing and clutching at things it can never have. At a love that would quench the stinging burn that blinds the eyes and of the heart and dashes the soul to the ground, leaving it to lie and die. What fire could make a heart shiver and quake at its existence such as this? What fever could grip a body to revolt such as this has demanded? Why can nothing be done to this rage that dwells and feeds and churns and covets the idea of being let free in the most vile of manners. Lips taste the poison that begs to be unleashed, to demonstrate its ill temper and need to be seen and felt. It does not want to be stopped. It will take its pound of flesh from whoever gets in the way first: a stranger or myself.

Why did someone lie to me?

Why did someone lie to me

And tell me faery bedtime lullibies

That sooth the mind and ease the soul

Convince the future to resolute

in happy times and a kiss goodnight

Why did someone lie to me

“This black inside your chest will dissolve

leaving a heroine’s heart beating out the tune

of the heavens instilled in her steps”

Why did someone lie to me

“Oh dear, you’re going through a stage.”

Once you’ve grown up you’ll have love

and never doubt that he will never deserve you.

Why can’t someone just lie to me

To tell me that it’s all ok

And that someday, on this rust colored dust

that stirs like my faded fears,

I will stand my ground, see a worried crowd

And coo them, myself, to sleep

That day I will sing my own lullibies

Whispers of faery stories come true

Someday I too will lie.

Hands

Of course I’ve been flipping out about ‘do I like this guy?’ all weekend, but come Monday when I felt a wall start to build between us I flipped even worse and looked for time to spend with him to try and get him back. It seems to be evident that I don’t want to lose him. Well, that’s one way to test it. Good to know.

So today we found a few minutes for lunch together, then he met me at the Spiritual Warfare class. The class was pointed towards healing prayer and at the end he asked everyone to open up to the holy spirit and see if he highlights anyone in particular. Eric almost immediately raised his hand after the silence and said ‘pain in the right knee, rotator cuff.’ or something to that affect. A guy claimed that it was him and he went to the front. Then a guy with a sore shoulder, then someone said they felt dizzy, heavy, and blurry eyed (which was me since my blood sugar was high)

I went up and immediately started guarding myself for whatever turned up (since I’ve never been healed in a setting like this) After he prayed for me I returned to my seat and re-checked my bloodsugar. (it was 50 points lower, but I had taken insulin before I went up) People around me started praying for me and my leg started twitching relentlessly. I kept feeling fogged and such.

Eventually Lauren Smythe kept saying ‘forgiveness’ and eventually I got sucked back into the basement in Field Ct. and broke. I sobbed loud for the first time in a very long time. They talked of forgiving God and forgiving my mom. I still don’t forgive her. I still can’t, no matter how freaking hard I try.

Eric came about half way through and sat by me the entire time. After the meeting dispersed and I was very sure that all this spiritual stuff has at least the foothold of my bitterness and unforgiveness that I have to work on, Eric and I went on a walk. He said he felt honored to have been there with me as I went through that experience. He had his arm around my shoulder and I had mine around his waist. It felt almost natural (not entirely, though, probably because we’re just new to this entire thing. We shared more of our lives and what the night was like and such, and just walked. Later he walked me back to Lissner and we sat on a couch in the commons. It was the first time I leaned my body against him (with my legs hanging off the couch arm). We held hands and talked about the future a bit. I don’t think of the future at all and that’s how I’m functioning in a relationship now. (What about tomorrow or the week?") Now I know that he only intends to date to see if marrage is an option. We agreed that when/if it becomes blaringly apparent that we will never get married, then we would break up. For now our relationship is explorational: a safe place to explore what a relationship looks like and what our relationship looks like. “Let’s see where this goes,” is my motto. In the midst of conversation we were holding hands and he started to play with one of mine, but placing it in his and rolling it around in different ways. I rolled his around in turn and soon our hands (one hand each) were almost playing a game together. I really liked it. I felt so comfortable; so natural there. He and I fit very well (except his hands are bigger and thicker than mine, so lacing fingers is not an easy feat to keep for long)

 

I do not think I will go out today.

No, I think I will stay in my bed, simply staying me.

I think to myself that I am expected to go out and live: join the daily thrall and continue with time. But I don’t want to. I will sit atop my covers and look at the life that the inside of my room tells me that I have and wait.

Over on the vanity is fine porcelain, painted down from the perfection that it used to be, yet still elegant and radiant. Alive. The face questions my figure as it beckons me to wear it and venture out to the day. The red of its lips and rust of its lids ask for at least a mellow tone in the crowd, just enough to be seen and alive.

I really just don’t want to.

The allure of the world has no luster for me today. I simply want to stay in my walls and be. Is that so much of a request?

I raise to visit my restroom mirror, behind which I keep my cures for the day. I overdosed on reality the day before, so a dose of silence and perhaps a bit of the fantastic should do me some good today.

Please don’t worry about me. Honestly, I don’t know if you should, but either way you shouldn’t. I’ve made my mind to stay within its walls today, so you won’t be hearing much out there from me. How could anyone accurately measure a ‘day’ in a place like this? But I solemnly promise when the day is done, I will let you know and deal with whatever you might have brought to my steps while I was gone.

Honestly I like it here, you just might have to wait.

Still fucked up

I’ve been working on deconstructing a brick wall for about 3 years now, bit by bit and brick by brick. The rubble is on the floor by my feet, there are various tools strewn around my feet, broken from the abuse against the brick, mingled with the blood from my own hands worked raw in desperation to get the wall down and done.

I am confronted with a paper, an autobiography, asking what my childhood was like and why I would like to be a teacher. After 3 years I try to look over the wall to see what really happened on the other side and find that I can only see the tree tops, barely. I understand what parts of the wall I already took down, I know you have to take apart a wall from the top down, but it still feels like a blow to the stomach to see that all of that work, all of that rubble, all of that blood, sweat, and the tears don’t help in the slightest way with what’s in front of you.

Simplicity

It all started with dear Emerson from Pide Piper. I, of course, was meddling in his buisness and asking why he was mad at the world at the time, and at one point he said that he wished everything was simple like it was in middle school. So, being a good girl and all, I think “Well, following Christ makes EVERYTHING more simple.”

I suppose what lead me to that thought was that he was talking about all of these complications of the world that just distract us from Christ and that worry us, things that if we trust God with, will melt away (or so it says in Matthew 11)

But it ISN’T that simple, is it? I' was never saying it would be easy, I’m talking simple. Follow scripture = simple. Live by rules = simple, right? Then you look at all of these theological debates and fights and all out denomination splits over the ‘simple’ stuff, but in all honesty, look at the scripture and do what it says.  Love those who hate you, witness to those around you by loving God and being a light, forget the weird stuff of the world like drugs and sex and such.

It’s not easy. I never said  it was easy. But there you have it. Can I dumb it down for you any further than that? At least, those are the answers to the things he was talking about. (And no, I didn’t say exactly that to him)

It’s interesting, how we water things down. Like with my ‘almost no carb’ diet. First week, I’m alright, I’ve got this. Now, I’ve had almost 3 desserts in the past 3 days. (Not cool) It starts with a ‘Oh, this isn’t so bad,’ and an ‘I’m allowed to do this…’ and don’t forget the ‘just one’ that turns into ‘just two’ that turns into ‘what’s another gunna hurt if I’ve already had this many?’ How is it any different than what we do here when we hear the simple diet?

“No sex.”

‘Well, it won’t hurt if it just do this with him…’

“Don’t lie.”

‘You know it’s for their own good if I just say…’

“Don’t swear.”

‘Crap is'n’t such a bad word, is it?’

Is it?

“Give to the poor.”

‘Are they really poor?’

“Help the orphan.”

‘I’ve got that car loan…’

“Give to those who need you!”

‘I can’t!’

Liar.

“Love those who hate you!”

‘Why should I?’

“Because I said so.”

‘And?’

It’s this entire back and forth chase, what can I get away with? Well, if He didn’t stop me from doing this, then why not?

And if we’re not doing what God says, i.e. worshiping with our lives, then what are we doing the bidding of? Who or what are we worshiping? I read Neil Gaiman’s book “American Gods” a couple of years back, and it just came back to me tonight. It’s set up so each god exists if someone worships it, and it is only as strong as how many people worship it. The old school gods have been forgotten and now the new gods are coming into power, the American Gods. T.V., money, sex, drugs, fame, all sorts of gods are, of course, coming to power as people devote themselves to them.

I’ve heard preachers speak on this kind of topic, heard them talk about how we devote our time on other things instead of God, and therefore worship them, how we dedicate our lives to silly things. I’m not sure it’s ever hit me like this before though. The more we feed these things with our devotion, you know the more they grow in our lives. How big is our devotion to food? How much time and thought do we spend on our clothes? Do we work so hard, so many hours of days of years making money for ourselves to hoard or spend on frivolous things, or do we give to those who REALLY need it?

Jeeze, I’ve been convicted of this so many times, but when will it really hit that these things can’t be our gods and we can’t spend so much of our short lives on them! They stay here! Just fyi, they don’t last and they won’t make us happy. I’m honestly scared that if I give too much I won’t have enough for myself, I’m not smart enough and don’t have enough self control to trust myself with that kind of slim money. I will save until the future and give what I can then, when everything is sorted, but until then, I need to focus on the important. I need to make sure I know who God is and what is not.

But who can tell you if he is who he says he is? Who can know the wonders or mysteries behind that façade he puts up day in and day out; the outward treachery of friends, forgotten ones, and knowns? Who’s to say he’s telling the lie correctly?

When do the riddles begin to have a meaning? When can I find out where to begin? when I look around at the mess surrounding me all that I can find is slacks of yarn with no rhyme or reason, no ending or beginning. Why do I have to keep guessing my way around this entangled knot? I want to know the answers but I can’t even find the questions.

when do the trees start to talk and gain their wisdom from silence? what can the flowers and the grass teach me that doesn’t have a sound? why can’t I see what I lie about between the orders of rose and cardania?  When will I know what to ask the trees as they sigh away from the wind that rushes them off to more important things than I? Why can’t I simply ask what I mean to know and hear what I mean to listen?

I need silence before all of this, and my mind is too full of cobwebs to let the echoes still themselves.

Given to Grief

I give, for grief, a small section of my brain, to ward off the bigger comings of repressed memories that would engulf me at once if not let out slowly.

I give, for grief, a small portion of my heart, because I can’t let it go and know that there is no possibility. I’ve tried to chip away that piece, but it’s my heart. It insists on staying whole.

I give, for grief, a small whisp of my soul, loving my beloved mother who will never give me back the years she stole out of spite through a bitterness. The cities are warm in comparison to where the heart my soul lies within.

I have given, for grief, a lot should it add up. My mind, my heart, my soul, it seems to have won. And yet I will never be given to grief, for I am not my own to give.

Next day reflections

Because of our vision and how it works, we see one layer of the world. One, thin, single layer. God can see countless layers of the world, the rays of light, the color of darkness, the wind in the air, the spirits we walk in and among, the layers our souls are made of, each and every one. We see one little layer, the flesh of our skin, we see the texture of a shirt, the bright colors of a comic book, and yet we can't even see all of it! Most of it actually. Did you notice the trees on your way out the door today? How many times did you see someone you knew today? What's the color of your house? So many things we don't even see on our own plane of vision. It's practically impossible to stimulate your brain with so much information at all times. (I say practically because I refuse to say impossible)
So if we're so limited in such an already limited vision, how can it be that God sees everything in our field of vision, plus every other possible vision? He is so infinite!! Just sitting down and think about this simple fact puts things into an amazing perspective, doesn't it?

In pyschology we're learning how the eye works and what we really see is just a bunch of waves, the colors depend on the length of waves, etc. All that we see is just stimulation. Look at the desk, that wood painted plastic and what we see of it is just a thin layer of waves, even though no matter how hard you look at it, it never changes. Look around. It all seems somehow less concrete. Everything that I see is just what my brain translates what it sees into. My 'real' is not so solid anymore.
Now think about what God sees. He doesn't just see the visual surface of anything, He sees the light, the rays, the beams, the constant vibration of matter, the force of gravity, how thin our reality really is, how we think we have such a solid hold on it, how we don't.
Reality seems... thinner now. Well, at least the physical reality does. I wonder what would happen if I looked through this lens for too long.

To Toni

I do want you to know,
You are a beautiful young girl. You may get trapped in what this world wants of you, or what you -think- it wants of you, but I want to break that right now. I look at your profile picture and I see this marvelous beauty, eyes perfectly shaped and complexion flawless. Hair straight as a pin and curved just so around your face.
Then I look into my memory of the frizzy haired girl with the big grin and the glasses. That grin that reached the eyes and broke the 'perfect shape' and made it into something even more fabulous. The hardy laugh that came from the gut and left you nearly breathless, the quick wit and humor that came from a sarcastically curled grin and showed through the eyes behind the glasses, shining with something more devious than mischief. The genuine feelings that bore through those eyes. -That- is what beauty is.
Your picture and my memory bring together the picture of your beauty, but only one will bring to view your nature and strength and courage -everything- that I love about you. Please believe me and never forget that.
I love you my dear little Toni. I wish you the best on your next year in your journey and will be here when you need me love.

Always there, Never noticed

I happen to be reading “Someplace To Be Flying” currently under the recommendation of Black. I also happen to be on a “Sorcerer’s Apprentice” kick as of a few days ago. I have happened to find a stark difference between the two.

When I was young, as most children did or so I believe, I was want to have daydreams about finding an awesome power coded in my DNA, brought into the light at the height of when I was needed and of course rescue those close to me and such. There was always a monologue about the powers and how it’s different and so on.

Now, as I’ve noticed with Someplace To Be Flying, there are never monologues. Whoever is involved with the Old Folk and has the spirit of an animal never really tell people. The off hand person might snoop around and such, but they never get a straight answer. There is no glory in it, there is no incredibility of the gift they have; there is simply what they are. When someone finds out about them, their scope of the world might be completely frazzled and now off-kelter, but there’s nothing to do about it. It simply is, nothing more.

The Sorcerer’s Apprentice is the kind of story I used to relish (and still do if the movie is made just right, as is so). Simple: kid has powers, world revolves around him, he saves the day, only a few people know. Awesome. He gets the monologue with the girl, very short and to the point (not my style, but he did it well) and he continues on with his powers, learning more about the world that has been introduced to and they all live happily, excitedly, ever interestingly after.

There are no monologues. There are no powers that can be seen with the naked eye and easily explained through a monologue. There is a chance happening-by-er who might or might not understand. Once they are gone the legacy is stopped. Few people who know pop up around the board, believers coming in and out of existence, but more likely than not they take it to their grave silently. The few and far between.

With The Sorcerer’s Apprentice, the sorcerers have always been around, only a few and very far between. They go out of their way to hide their magic and not be noticed. Their monologues are mandatory. For Someplace To Be Flying, there is no way to even bring it out into the open. Any who would try to give their monologue run the high risk of an insane asylum. So they continue, unnoticed and but always there. Living just as they would if their society of the gifted were on their own, and to anyone who might become curious, well let’s just hope they enjoy riddles. 

So who are they?

Wake up Little One

In the car we hurry to the gas stop, praying the fill up will be smooth and quick, retaining any heat the car might have accumulated before it’s turned off. She breaths and falls into herself, nearly collapsing in her seat. She feels the strings of a puppeteer. "

“Wake up little one.”

The strings bounce her limbs an inch or two off the ground repeatedly, but no higher. She continues to clear her mind to fend off any possibility of it forcing a conclusion to the strings layed out before her.

“Wake up little one.”

Time seems to want to move onto the next thing, she certainly does. She waits as she’s bounced over and over.

“Wake up little one.”

The voice speeds it’s consistent chant. It never varies, never slows, just continues.

“Wake up little one”

She searches for another meaning.

“Wake up little one.”

She thinks the worst of what this might be.

“Wake up little one.”

This seems a set up for manipulation

“Wake up little one.”

What else could puppet strings mean?

“Wake up little one.”

She stops.

The strings slow.

“In the name of God the Father, in the name of the Lord of Creation. In the name of Jesus Christ. In the blood of Christ I bind anything and everything off of me that is trying to manipulate me. Anything and everything of ill intent be gone.”

She waits.

The strings grow gently taught.

“Wake up little one. Wake up.”

Miles Up

Miles Up

Above one layer of cloud cover I close my eyes against the plane window, shelter them from the light with my hand, and open them to the night sky. No stars to appear as of yet, but below, just below against the grey and mist are hints of lights. As if someone had walked the clouds carrying a leaky pail of foslouresent pain in hand 20 years ago and now the dull memories of the slips remain. So many cities. So many clouds of life. Each new from the next, yet each the same pale shade of glow.

Our world is fallen. For the past five years I’ve lived with my mother who would constantly quiz me on how bad of a person my father was, yell at me for reasons beyond my knowledge, and constantly paint me as a terribly irreputable child who understood nothing and needed to learn respect. My days consisted of laying in bed, eating all meals alone in my room, trying to hold onto a semblance of a social life online, and my children’s theatre practice. While my physical restraints were slowly rising, I was trying to accomplish something that would assure me that I had some sort of intelligence and wasn’t a brain-dead beat knick who was worth anything. But in this world we encounter a God who is many things.

God is merciful. I remember many nights when I would scream to God, “Why is this happening to me?! Why not someone else?? Why me!!” I could feel him patiently listening and when he knew I had cried enough, I remember him lulling me to sleep for the night, which was a rare treat in itself, seeing as I was an insomniac.

God is love. There were five years of my life where the only social interaction I had was at a children’s theatre. It was there I learned that love is what makes life livable, no matter the circumstance. They all loved me as a family and accepted me, however I was. I loved each and every one of those kids, and it would show. A couple of times when I said, “I love you!” They would retort, “Brynn, who don’t you love?” and I wouldn’t have an answer for them. It was within this last year that I learned all love comes from God and the only reason I was able to love unconditionally was because it was a gift from God, and I used it well.

God is all knowing. I will never forget how the first meeting with my father in three years went. I had held an anger towards him since the divorce and wanted him to know that I was hurt, but no matter how angry I was towards my dad, he could always make me laugh within the first two words out of his mouth. I believe God knew how much I would need my dad despite the long and horrible separation from him, and he planned our personalities the way he did so that we could pick up right where we left off.

God is hope. I went to a residential hospital for my diabetes and dysautonomia a year and a half ago; within the year I moved in with my dad, I had gotten a GED, taken the ACT and scored a 27, started college classes, held a 4.0 all year, gotten and held a job for 7 months, earned a driver’s license, plugged in with a college age church group, found a family within the church, and kept a steady worship and meditation with God, all while keeping my blood sugars controlled. If that isn’t the merciful healing touch of God, then I don’t know what is.

I hear a heartbeat that isn't mine
It thrums through my head few beats at a time
It comes to knock through the hallows of my mind
Then leaves with warnings of others of its kind

Leaves until I've barely forgotten
its erractic pace
Then pounces on my memory
And awakens a dull pain
Thrumming, popping, demanding attention
To stop
And listen to it
Although it has nothing to say
That I havn't heard before

Here goes the heart drum
There comes the silence
Only until I've forgotten
And I need reminding
once again