Posts

Heir Imposter

I have hidden so long, the art of hiding has faded.There is no artistry in this merciless game of cat and mouse—identity and truth.How are the identical juxtaposed and the unified opposed in this hidden life?I am one mask after another, falling in a procession of dark deceit backlit by honest flashes, peeking in and out between my blurred lines.For years, an infinite string of isolated moments, I have prayed to be what I truly am and to be seen so. Yet, every night I feel my Shepherd pull away my mask, and every morning I find myself trapped behind a new one.What am I, if not a versatile parasite, tagging along in the teaming crowds and gliding through life hated by none so much as myself?A smile’s flash, a winking eye, the whip-crack of a laugh.A silenced scream, a sob wracked chest, a pillow wet with tired tears.What am I? I am these disguises. Maybe the juxtaposed and uniform are merely misplaced and misidentified. Perhaps these paper-thin protections and these poorly-lit projects …

A Notion of the Holy

There are virtues that we all strive towards. In the heart of every person, there is a divine pull towards a greater self, one in possession of virtue. We search for truth, hope, love, faith, and Grace. We look our whole lives for some attainable version of those attributes. We take what others give us, what we find, what we think we deserve. We drink tinted virtues like muddied water. We are loved with neglectful obsession, forgiven with half-hearted acceptance, and seen with fractured sight. What would it be if all our actions were as full-bodied as we wish they were? What if all the deep crevices in our hearts were filled with the extremity of virtue? How sweet would it be to be loved uncontrollably? How rich to be forgiven entirely and valued so thoroughly? How magnificent to be seen completely as we are? For centuries, literature has pursued such utter wholeness--virtuous perfection. Who are Romeo and Juliet if not the finite epitome's of devotion? Who is Hercules if not the…

Gloriously So

Recently, I've had this feeling of suspension--like, I'm one big lie that's going to come out one day. It's the feeling of walking around in clothes much too big. The dread of my guise dropping off and someone seeing me for who I truly am has haunted me, constantly. I've heard that some people call it Imposter Syndrome. I've always just recognized it as my life-long battle with inferiority. For as far back as I can remember, there has always been a yawning gap between myself and others. The others seemed to come into life so well-equipped and so well-prepared to face whatever came next. What felt to me like mount Everest, to them, didn't even register as a molehill. And as I grew older, the feeling grew deeper and the realization that I was different from everyone else grew starker. People used words for me: "unique" or "special", but all I heard was "Less than desirable". Strangely enough, those feelings maturing into facts in…

Not Only But Always

The greatest shortcoming in my life--possibly my greatest personal fault--is my shattered perception of God and His benevolent nature. I was raised in a Christian family, and yet hearing God alluded to as "The Benevolent Creator of all things" gave me pause. Did I not believe that God was benevolent? Did I not think God was good? How do we learn anything? We decide based on what we remember. Why does two plus two equal four?--because it has always come to that sum in the past. So if I look at God in that way, I cannot see Him as the benevolent Creator. Trust me when I say, I come from a beautiful background. Good family, good home, good church--nothing to take for granted, but I do. If your house is flooded, you don't consider the architect benevolent because he gave you high ceilings and aesthetically-pleasing windows. A truly benevolent architect would build the house so that it doesn't flood, right? I come from a safe background--a sturdy house--and somehow I find…

For A Tear

To pour out the infinite, unknowable ache of the soul in physical expression is possibly the bravest act in the world. What are tears but the insurrection of a broken heart, pushing the world out and away from the throbbing pain of a scourged soul? True tears--undeniable tears born out of utter confusion, hopelessness, and loss--what are they if not bolts by which our world is fastened down? What are tears but silver lines by which we trace our very identity? They are defenders, gilded in sparkling white, rushing wave after wave to guard the human spirit from all manner of attack. Each tear, a tiny soldier shielding the flickering light of God's-breath born in the heart of every man. They are those tent-posts that establish character and belief. The human life is bound within the perimeter of tears--life's manual written in a pained hand, road signs printed out in grief, passages closed for the loss of hope's light. And, the man is outlined farther still inside the world h…

Our Legacy

What makes us think we are so untouchable? For such fragile mortals, we seem to walk the earth as the most irreverent form of immortals. Some chalk this flippant ignorance up as a virtue of prevailing humanity. They lie. What is profited by glorifying the ridiculously ungrateful spirit of our people? Nothing. I would not call it the ungrateful spirit of our time. Humans have been equally narrow minded and self-serving since Eden’s rebellion. Today, the twenty-first century is not far worse or much better than the world centuries ago. If anything in this world evolves, it is the twisting way in which iniquity bleeds through the ages. The problems we face in this decade are kindred in spirit to those that opposed our fathers in their time; it is merely the face of the beast that changes. Commodity or enemy, iniquity paints its face to best entice the newest generation. If I asked the Greatest Generation if genocide was wrong? They would have opposed it with their whole heart. It was th…

Life Jacket Identity

When I was a little girl, I was given a bright yellow lifejacket. I loved it because it felt like a infinite hug, keeping me together. It was a constant friend and a protection from both outside and inside. It was the masthead of my identity as a little girl, the top thing on the spiraling tower of who I was. At first glance, that's what identity is. It is merely a collection of what we have done, what we have, and who we know. It is a pile--a house, full of things. 
When we meet someone, we long to take them on a tour of our home. Here is the Atlas Room, full of my completed bucket lists and voyage souvenirs. Here is my stereo, with every song, random fact, and language I know. Here, notice my garage full of useful skills--my closet, my library, my garden. But, let's start here at the front with my trophy room. I keep the window open so that people can see it from the street. 
We put so much thought into what color we paint the siding. Who are you? Oh, I'm the blue house wi…