I can only hope that the sort of incomplete, restlessness that
nestles its way into my night has to do with the
outside slowly making its way in
and the inside slowly trying to find a way out.
The two coincide together and mix until there's
a jumbled, disheveled painting of combined colors
and stiff ideality.
The soreness in my heart makes way for the brokenness to present itself,
And I've never been one to openly desire for brokenness to be present in my life
so this is a reminder that I truly am not in control,
as I try to fathom tender muscles and wobbly ankles.
Glimpses of some things that were continually flaunt their memories in my vision
galavanting in shiny wardrobes and blunt emotion.
I can't hide from everything,
and my wobbly ankles prove excuse for running very far from such a strong presence.
I can't hide. I can't run. I can't escape.
That's the point.
Life is out of my control,
like a gusting wind that comes about unexpectedly,
or a merge of stopped traffic that blocks time and makes impatience obvious.
If I can't run, or hide, or escape on my own
I must make a run, hiding place, or escape out of something
May every glance that my eyes journey to make,
every memory that my mind dares to recall,
every dark place that my heart tries to hide from,
and every nerve-wracking, tension-building, stress-discovering moment that I stumble into
be loosed in my Hiding Place,
May He be those things to my soul
and may I never forget it.