Dear Future Love of My Life–

They keep saying I need to guard my heart, save it all for you. They even give me a list of rules to follow. My heart will be completely intact for you.

I’ve followed that list . . . mostly. I’ve waited. And sure, I strayed slightly before, but nobody’s perfect, right? Everyone knows that, especially the ones closest to me. But then why do I feel so guilty over what seems so small? They still seem to expect perfect. Do you?

And have a couple of ridiculous crushes really damaged the heart I’ve been so desperately trying to save for you? Or have the close friends I trusted who instead of nurturing my heart have stomped on it until it bled? What about all those people who should’ve taken care of my heart before I even knew how? They crush it in hands that should have held me. They left it shattered on the ground, and walking away, they told me to make sure I saved it for you. So I scrambled to pick up all the pieces. I guess it wasn’t much of a heart to save for you, was it?

So I gave it to Him. Or rather, He took it. I was hesitant and scared at first, but He promised to keep it safe for me. Then as I held it out to Him, I was ashamed that One so beautiful and perfect should want my broken, mangled heart. But He only smiled and stroked my face with His pierced hands. Then He gently took my heart and held it for a moment. I thought I saw a single tear slide down his cheek. I was afraid He was disappointed in me for not keeping my heart perfect for you, for Him. But as He looked up, I saw a deep pain in His eyes. And I realized He could feel my pain, more than I ever had.

Closing His hands around my heart, He blew  softly into His palms. When He opened them again, my heart lay there mended and new made. I looked on it in wonder and He smiled again.

I left it with Him. There have been times when I’ve snatched it back, though, thinking I knew better. When I realized my wrong, I came crawling back in shame with the tattered remains. But every time I was overwhelmed and awed by His forgiveness.

He’s willing to give it to you when you’re ready, and when I’m ready. Will you treasure it like He has? Will you think it’s beautiful, not despite the scars, but because of them? Will you protect it from those who are so careless with it?

It’s not as big of a task as it seems. Don’t worry. He’ll help youD.

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Image

Scar

Scar

You’re burning me. You’re scraping me. You’re searing me like a slab of fish on a hot skillet. You just keep repeating the same process; slice me open then douse my wounds in vinegar. It hurts so badly that I become numb. I shut you out. I avoid everything that reminds me of you. You’re my worst downfall. The worst experience I ever had. You’re oblivious and you won’t ever realize how deep youre cutting me with your twisting words and wicked lies. I know now that I was just another chess piece in your game. Another one checked off your list. Used. Played. Lead on. Your pathetic excuses and asking for attention. Trying to hide every flaw in your little secretive life. Wanting sympathy from me then trapping me and strangling me till blue and purple bruises are noticeable. Blood stains on my neck from your nails digging into my flawless flesh. Bait and switch, is what they call it. That’s the card you pulled. That’s the move you chose to make. “Checkmate,” is what you devilishly whisper in my ear as a poisonous grin is smothered across your pale, boney, and slightly scruffy face. You’re too dangerous. One touch, and I was burnt. But you first had to play me. Make me feel like I was worth something, then drop me like I never existed in the first place. Constantly playing the game of hot-potatoe. Like you never even spotted me in the crowd. You never understood how much I loved you. How much love I genuinely stored up for you. As a thank you, I get stabbed in the back. For every good thing I ever did for you, in return I’d get a knife through my heart. Slowly twisting it so that I’d feel every slight rotation in the blade deep within me. Painfully searching for a way out, while needles punctured my every attempt to breathe. I eventually survived your torturing,graphic, abusive experiments. You’ve branded me. You’ve scarred me immensely. I will never forget the day when you come crawling back to me on your hands and knee’s begging me for forgiveness. Begging so that you won’t go to hell. Being so repentant and desperately try to convince me that you’re sorry and regret every evil deed you committed against me. Try so hard to make me think different of you. To think good of you. Think that you’re not so bad after all. I’ve learned. I’m not falling for your manipulative nasty ways. I won’t hurt you. I won’t abuse you like you did to me. I’ve already forgiven you in my heart whether or not you apologized to my face. But I WILL simply whisper one word in your ear. That one word will haunt your future. Will haunt you. Will taint your every next move. Its time *I* brand *you* with that one little word. That powerful, influencing, ripping word that you once spoke in my left ear. What else can I whisper but, “checkmate?”

“The King Will Desire You” –Psalm 45:11

When you were in pain,
they said you were just

                     hormonal.

When you CRIED,
they said you were just
emotional.

When you were hurt, they said you were                                         just                                                                                 overreacting.

When you were doing your best,                                                                                            they said you were a                      FAILURE.

When you were seeking,                they said                                    you were rebellious.

When you were ready to                                                                  move on, they said you were

ungrateful.

When you                                                                                loved,

they said you were manipulative.

When you hid your pain and others’ sin,                                           they said you were

FAKE.

When you were open and honest,

they said you were weak.

When you did things DIFFERently,

they said

you were

sinful.

But I say you are beautiful and perfect because I have made you so. I have written a SONG for you, and I will comfort you in My arms. I understand you and know you. And I DESIRE you and love you with a steadfast love.

So tell me, which one is more crucial than the other, to you?

Can’t sleep. My eyes just won’t shut. Sitting in bed with the fan blowing on me is peaceful. Geez, my eyelids, they must’ve been smokin’ something fierce. No one’s online at 3:49 AM. Kind of disappointing, but expected. I think back… I have so many questions… Questions about everything. Just… Life. They haven’t been answered, but only God can satisfy that yearn of mine.

Relationships. Guys and girls, parents and their children… What about you and God? You and your Maker? Your Defender, your Creator, Savior, everlasting God, Stronghold, Giver of Life, Father? Now, it may seem like your relationships here on earth are more important since God is somewhere else far away, and you can’t physically see Him. But we have to keep in mind, who gave us life? Who gave up His life in order for us to be in paradise with Him when we’re done here on earth? Who loves us more than anyone/anything ever could in this universe? Who forgives us when we repent and run to Him for guidance? Who delivers us from evil? Who punishes us because He loves us so? Simple answer. It’s all God. We need to give Him credit for each and everyone of these questions. So even though it sometimes seems like we should focus more on our earthly relationship and only sometimes tend to our spiritual relationship with Christ, it’s quite selfish and distorted for us to think so. Don’t get me wrong, I speak from experience. I always disregard my relationship with Christ and “put it off.” I tell myself I can tend to it later… Correction, it shouldn’t be that way. I should be focusing on Him and how majestic He is. Praising and worshiping Him for what He’s done for me and my family, friends, and piers is what’s needed. That’s my responsibility. That should be every Christians responsibility. Tend to your relationship with your Savior. Be joyful in Him, have a great attitude. Treat others better than yourself because that’s what GOD wants. That’s what GOD would do. That’s how you can glorify Him.

Talk to Him. You don’t have to do it formally. In fact, I speak to Him like He’s in the room with me instead of saying, “dear God…” and continuing with my formal prayer. He’s always beside you. Acknowledge that He’s there. He wants you to want Him. He wants you to communicate with Him. Talk with Him. He’s your best friend. The most trustworthy, faithful, and loving friend anyone could ever ask for. Tell Him how you feel, what’s up, what’s bothering you, thank Him for things that He’s done, be joyful,  and take heart. He’s the best thing that’ll  ever happen to you and your life.  So my question to you is, which relationships will you focus on from now on?

Dirt

They’re covered in dirt, my hands are. Grime, filth, disgusting grubbiness that I can never seem to get rid of. I scrub and scrape and wash, but none on the unclean stuff will come off. I scrub and scrape and wash again, but it’s no use.

            The filthiness on my hands has been collected over years and years of playing in the dirt. Even though I had always tried to avoid the dirt, I would somehow find my arms shoved in the pile so deep someone would have to pull me out. And then I would hide my blackened hands under white satin gloves, but those would only work for so long. The black stuff would manage to seep through and stain the white.

            So I would go back to trying to wipe away the dirt myself. There had to be a way to get it off. I would scrub and scrape and wash. The dirt clung to my raw skin like a parasite.

            One hand was soiled from dirt I had put there. Sometimes purposely, sometimes I didn’t realize what exactly I had done until later.  I didn’t realize that those times I was just messing around would have such a lasting effect. I had no idea those times I gave into anger, impulses and wrong desires would leave such an imprint. And now I scrub and scrape and wash.

            The other hand is tainted with clots and splotches given to me by others. Each and every speck has a name, and I know everyone well. Worldly. Sinful. Rebellious. Seductive. Manipulative. Not good enough. Liar. Stupid. Ugly. Fake. Weak. Immature. Damned. The filth on this hand causes me to think I deserve to walk around unclean for the rest of my life because that’s exactly what I am. And I could never be anything more.

            But still I continue to scrub and scrape and wash. I think there must be something I can do to be clean again, that this feeling of disgust with myself will go away. But it never does. It only grows worse until it’s all I can focus on. I rub my hands obsessively and can think of nothing and no one else but ridding myself of the dirt.

            There are some especially disgusting and sickening clods that I especially hide. I am so repulsed by them that even I cannot stand to look at them. No one has ever seen them, and no one ever will. If they ever did, they would think I am some diseased freak of creation and stay far away lest they become infected themselves. They would hate me almost as much as I hate myself. But these clumps of dirt are the most difficult to get rid of. It seems the more I scrub and scrape and wash, the more apparent they become, the larger they grow.

            I scrub and scrape and wash. I scrub and scrape and wash until my hands are raw, sore and stinging from the incessant chafing. My blood mixes with the dirt and makes a thick mixture on my hands that sticks.

            “God,” I cry, falling to my knees, holding my repulsive hands out before me. “All I want is to be clean!”

            No longer able to look at my own hands, I lower my head and sob, the guilt and shame choking me. The hopelessness of living my life defined by the dirt on my hands overwhelms me and cuts me to the core. All I want is to be clean.

            I feel something touch me, and I jerk away even as I look up. But He doesn’t let me. He holds fast to me with His own hands. His hands, that I always thought to be too clean to ever come near mine, are covering mine. Bright red blood flows freely from a punctured hole in each hand. I shriek and try to pull away again as I see His blood drenching my hands. But He won’t let go.

            I watch, horrified, as my hands are bathed in Someone else’s blood, and then I stare in mesmerized awe as He finally removes His hands from mine. He begins wiping my hands with a part of his spotless white robe. The dirt, grime, blood, sweat and tears all come off, staining his robe with my filth. Gently, He continues to remove all traces of dirt from my hands until every last bit has been transferred from me to him. I am clean.

            “My child,” He says, taking my perfect, spotless hand in His and helping me up. “I can make you more than just clean. I can make you strong. I can make you courageous. I can make you perfect.”

            He pauses for a moment and gives my hand a squeeze before leaning down and whispering in my ear. “I can make you Mine.”