How do you overcome becoming comfortable with being uncomfortable?
Oh, Apathy.

I just had a dream that I found Karina Taylor...

Broken Glass

When you put your hands on some broken glass, you're always at risk.
I know this better than most, yeah. Does it stop me from trying to pick the pieces up? Never.
I knew what I was getting myself into, but I did not relent. I have been more careful, by far, this time around, but it is of no use really. This isn't just inanimate, impersonal brokenness; it is a living, breathing someone. You will be cut because they cannot help but, and other times the discomfort you cause them might have them cutting you with ignorance and, more importantly, unknowing intent.
I know this all too well. Does this knowledge ever redirect me? Never. Nope.
It only has apprehension accompany me as I delicately reach and gather all the little and big pieces that I can. It only delays what is inevitable.
I've written about this time and time again, and I wonder, what a great wonder, if this is merely an unhealthy inclination. For those who have not crossed wires like I have, is this desire among them as well? Am I seeking to play God? Am I seeking to merely control and play the savior? Do I only seek out the familiarity of an unhealthy someone who will time and time again break my heart to match their own? How much more must I learn of genuine agape love? Do my choices in regards to love themselves come together in the end to make love, or is love just love? I mean, if I make the right choices can it still be an invalid love? Is it faith and free will or is it all drawn out already?
What business do I have trying to clean up broken glass? I'll never be qualified. This is God's business, not mine. Who am I? Who do I think I am walking around with a broken heart, imperfect love, and an arrogant air... plagued by question amongst questions. Who am I?
I wonder further if I go on sitting in sadness each time and simply bouncing back. Do I have the capacity to fight off the cold weather inside of my chest? I ask if I can go on cutting myself along the sharp edges without becoming callous and hardened again. Can I avoid scarring and maintain a soft hand to handle and touch you?

I am sitting here, arms crossed, staring and wondering. "I wonder." That's a fitting response for the next person who asks how I'm doing or what's new in my life. I sit and I wonder wonder wonder. Are you ok? The next time you say you love me, should I ask, for my sake, that you not even say it because you are probably unable to live out such a statement at this point? Now, that's not to say that you never will be. In fact, I have great hope and faith that you will eventually. These days, that's saying a whole lot, the talk of faith and hope I mean. For the record, go ahead and say it anyway. It always sounds so sweet and I think you're headed in the right direction as of late.
I do wonder though if I should have any part in this restoration. Is it my place? Part of me would like to be, while the apathetic and selfish me would not. The part that would stand to sit and take the injuries along the way, I once again wonder what exactly motivates it. Is it proper selfless love or is it a crooked and dark desire for what is horribly familiar? I don't know, and it kills me not to know, not to understand.
It kills me, dear, to think of your precious glass being broken... the fondness of that breaking that even grew inside of you. It brings me great sadness and it incites anger and disgust. None of this is due to your personal fault, these circumstances, and none of it is directed at you, not by any means, not any little bit. This is the reason I continue to cut myself with these ruthless shards. I cannot stomach these thoughts for very long and to see the broken glass is a reminder. I want to put it all back together again more than I'd like to do anything else in this world. Don't hold back though, please don't. I count it such a privilege that you would share these accounts with me, that you would feel so comfortable as to willfully let me handle these beautiful broken and delicate pieces.
Do I really mean that though, about wanting it more than anything else? Honestly, there is no overnight shipping offered on your package of deliverance, but I won't rule out a miracle. Do I really want to see it more than anything? Am I truly patient as love is? Can I take the earth crumbling chance that it will never arrive because the sound of all the shattering glass has, to you, quieted that small still Voice?


I wish it wasn't raining outside, so I could go for a run or even just a walk. The sound of the rain doesn't help either. Typically it's a soothing sound for me. Tonight though, it is the trickling anxiety that I have for fear of your safety and clarity of judgement. Please don't break my heart two times over in one night. Please? Promise? Ok, I'll muster up whatever "hope" that I can. Back to the run or the walk: instead I'm confined to my bedroom and this silly little box of text. My thoughts are here with me just the same. They really don't have many places to go in such a tight spot. I hope I can sleep tonight.

I told you that you scare me, but I've never really told you why.
Well, my dear, here we are.

I really do love you, and I do hope that I can act it out properly for I would hate to see, in the end, that I too was just breaking the glass as I picked it all up for repair.

I am fearful, and my cowardice speaks clearly to me with great inflection. It's hard not to listen to what he has to say with all that confidence and bravado he carries. He's always been quite convincing, but for how long can I point my finger in his direction. All the while, I'm not fond of allowing circumstance the driver's seat. Personally, I'd like to maintain this push forward, always pushing the circumstance around to fit with my mindset, grinding and pummeling it until it fits a predetermined slot in my belief. Circumstance will not deter or determine my action, and I hope for you to come to the same place. I promise you, get here and I will back you. If you lose your footing, I will grab a firm hold of you. Besides, I need someone to do the same for me. God's here too... and He sure does miss you. He wants you to know that He'll never see you as anything less than His beautiful daughter. You are precious and priceless. Ironically, He's paid a price that covers the priceless. He's given His Son for His daughter, for you. Crimson red grace, mercy and LOVE covers every little blemish, my dear, if you'll have it... if you'll have Him. It will CHANGE you. It will make things new. It will cleanse you. I know I said red wasn't your color, but I'd love nothing more than for you to wear this red cloak for the rest of your life... every day... every minute and tick tock. I swear you would never look more beautiful, and you would never feel so beautiful in anything else. Strangely this sublime, deep dark red turns everything bright white as snow, and there you are standing covered in grace in God's presence.

I want to see you made whole again, sweetheart.
I want you to meet Jesus Christ...
He loves you like I never can, could, will or would. I swear to you He does, and you'll just have to press on despite the discomfort of His unrelenting grace and love. You'll have to go deeper no matter how unreal it seems, no matter what the broken glass tells you for fear of being broken again. You simply must, my dear.
I love you, I really do, but I cannot help you like my good Lord can...


He
loves
YOU.

Count on that one; it's absolute.

Unforgiveness is like drinking poison while hoping the other person will die.