"Hope is the feeling you have that the feeling you have isn't permanent." -
Jean Kerr, Finishing Touches (Act III)
Trees, flowers, shrubs...
Sometimes their brightness is almost as blinding as natural sunlight on a day with no clouds in the sky.
It's an amazing sight to behold.
But today has been one of those days where I just.
Because today I feel as brittle as a piece of dried-out grass in a nondescript Phoenix neighborhood in the middle of the summer time.
One wrong touch, one wrong movement, and I'm going to shatter into a million pieces.
Kind of like the days after that one at the beach in Brisbane, Australia (the one where I scared even myself with thoughts of walking into the water, and letting myself get pulled away by the currents of the Tasman Sea) nearly four and a half years ago.
I'm talking about the days in Northern Territory afterwards, where I melted down into buckets of tears on a weekly basis for no seemingly good reason other than years of repressing them coming back bite me in the ass.
Yeah, and working to get to the root of why I might want to walk into the Tasman Sea and never walk out again.
Can't forget that part.
Back then, it felt like a giant water balloon filling up inside of my chest, weighing me down and making it nearly impossible to breathe.
A lifetime of the things I needed to say, to purge, to get out of my system.
But the water balloon had to deflate, so the tears had to come first.
Then I could speak.
Right now, it doesn't feel any different - the giant water balloon filling up inside my chest, over three years worth of secret pains and poison I need purged from my system.
And I'm clinging to the promises of the red and black letters in a battered maroon covered Bible I've highlighted and marked up since shortly after I graduated from high school.
The promises in that book, and the evidence built up over a lifetime of stumbles and falls, that there is still joy to be had as long as I don't give up.
What I know from that book is this brittle, broken feeling won't last forever.
Someday, the words will come, and I will be able to name all these things that have taken up residence inside of me, and need to be evicted.
In the meantime, I aim to put my ear to His chest and listen as He whispers, "This feeling isn't permanent," again and again and again until the knowledge seeps back into my soul.
I aim to let my fists beat again His chest, and the tears soak in.
I aim to stay right where He is, because He is the only hope I have of ever seeing anything set to right.