05/18/11 what is my story? what is my name?

It was supposed to be related to a familiar myth.

Something that I could see myself in.

There’s not any myth that comes to mind.

I have no name.

Bent and dent

That’s what comes to me when I think of my story

You know, the stuff that’s not good enough for regular shelves at good stores

That’s scratched up and often without a label

And the people that come to buy it are either unable or unwilling to buy the regular good stuff.

They settle.

And the bent and dent is happy that someone, anyone wants them.

Yeah.

Other lies I’ve believed:

Too many hurtles to jump, not worth the effort.

No one could possibly make that journey.

But if there is, they are only doing it because they want to amuse themselves.

Or they are stupid and do not see how damaged I am.

Or I’ve fooled them into thinking I’m all that – my secret power.

I can’t quite reconcile myself with the damage.

I need help.

And I’m convinced that it is more than anyone can or is going to be willing to give.

No one that is worth anything.

Least of all a man after God’s own heart.

There are some arrows that are too deep.

Hurts that will never be healed.

Pain that I must live with forever.

Because I deserve no freedom from it.

Because I am not good enough.

And the details – and the story – is so dirty and filthy that I cannot bare to look at it.

I cannot bring myself to go there.

I certainly can’t take my beautiful Holy Saviour there.

He could never love me enough to look into that dark abyss.

I know He is enough, and His love is true.

But I can’t reconcile my ugliness with it.

It seems too much for Him to WANT to heal.

These are the lies I have believed.

They haunt me still.

They push me back to a place of despair and desolation.

So many shouting voices pushing me down that I cannot hear the tender voice of Jesus.

And I long to hear it.

I just am so weary of the fight.

Now?

Now I am poised on the point of a very sharp sword.  I am waiting for the verdict.

It could go either way.

I hold my breath.

Is this yet another cruel joke on me?

I do have hope.  That is a seedling within.  It is new and tender.

I close my eyes and wait, holding my breath, with a small sliver of hope held tenderly but tightly.

Father….  Father, do you really want me?