Fragile Interuptions

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Have you ever lay in a carpet of grass and stared deep into a clear blue sky? A sky so empty of anything that you can see straight into the void of azure space? But when you pull in your focus and stop peering so far, tiny, elusive squiggles come into view before racing away. Fragile interruptions in our peripherals; minute distortions in our vision. As people in the world, we each have our own mounts or stances that we choose to hold – often these are high horses – but what we fail to realize is that each of our views are fractured by our own eyes. We look out from our bodies, but we only see what our eyes allow us to. We share views with those who have similar eyes as us; we blink at those who do not. Imperfections live in our very eyes! Some eyes may be clearer than others, but none of us imperfect beings are able to decipher which eyes those may be. After all, a speck may be as large as a log and we would never know. How can we point fingers and turn up noses when our eyes do not clearly see? Instead of judging those with a different view, look again at the defects in your own eyes. Imperfections and flaws lurk between you and what you see.

The Natural Order

“Do not fight the natural order,” they say, “Do not go against the flow, rock the boat, or tip the scales. Things are a certain way for a reason. The lion kills the gazelle and all that. His father was a farmer and his father before him, so he will be a farmer. She was born poor, she will live poor, and she will die poor . . .” But is we do not fight the Natural Order, what are we doing with our lives? Nothing! We float, ghost-like through an existence that was meant to be so much more. And the Truth is that people struggle against nature everyday. Any time they drive their cars, or sip their mochas, or take their medicine, or live in their houses. The earth was not put here with these things on it, man fought for them and made them. Every time that the hot summer air presses softly on their skin, they run from the Natural Order to their air conditioned safe havens. But a number of these people still slide through life without purpose. This kind of tipping the scales has little more than selfishness as a reward. I want to live in such a way that I fight normality. I crave a life of more than surface value. I want to buck the system, to rock the boat in such a way as to spill society out of the boat; maybe then the cold water would shock them into living. I want to be born rich and die poor; to be born a farmer and become a fisher. This life has only a temporary hold on me and it should know that. I will not forever be constricted to this body with its sorry limitations. One day my spirit will be free, and I want it to rest and know that it did something to change this world for the better. I want to rest in the peace of fighting the Natural Order.

Scars Should Be Called Stories

Scars should be called stories because that is what they are worth

A boy proudly showing off the scrape on his knee

But you see when we grow up and call ourselves adults we hide the scars and shove the stories deep in our closets . . .

We cover our wrists and say, “It’s okay, I’ll live to fight another day,”

But we won’t, not if we let our wounds fester,

But we can’t let them air so we can heal because we care too much about our dirty laundry,

Well guess what, everyone else has their own dirt so stop flirting with Rationalization because he will ruin you.

Stories need told and if scars are stories, no matter how old, then they need shared not covered. Others can learn from you, feel comfort in knowing that they are not alone.

You have scars but they say, “What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger,” and it feels like it is killing you. More like death than strength. Your breath is labored with pain; it’s insane to live this way.

But there is hope because before there were your scars, there were His scars.

His scars bring healing more than hurt, and love more than desertion.

And believe me the story of those scars is more beautiful than handful of cheap lies.

The hands that formed the earth took nails, and the head that thought it all up was embedded with thorns.

So though I am broken, I have hope

And though I am marred, I have love

And though I am damaged, I have joy

And though I am stained, I have scars.

Look at the scrape on my knee or wrist or back or face.

Scars should be called stories because that is what they are worth.