20 June 2014


Image found here
They say things fall into place if you're living right.

What they don't tell you is that sometimes the way they fall is in a twisted, burning heap.

Maybe you refused to bail out and now have to pick yourself up out of the wreckage. Maybe you did bail out, and you still have to pick yourself up. The point is, the thing crashed. And you were doing the best you knew how to do.

You sit there, burned and hurt yourself, and face the wreckage that was a promise...or at least a struggle you were determined to win out on. You try to breathe. Maybe you weep. A lot.

Then you ask the question you've been taught never to ask but that rips from your bloodied self anyway: Why?

And, of course, there is no answer. Did you expect one? No. Yes. You don't know anything anymore...it's wrecked.

But there's a command. Get up.

Not on your life. You gave your heart, and now your blood and tears for that mass of smoking rubble right there. You thought it was the right thing; you strained everything for it. And now you're sure as hell not going to be left with nothing.

And you use that word because, from where you sit, hell seems the surest thing right now.

Get up. Come to me.
I can't. Can't you see the condition I'm in? I wore myself out for this, and I have nothing left. And nothing to show for it either. 
Come to me. 
Why couldn't you perform a miracle? Would it have been so bad? Is there something better? There must be if you let that beauty crash. But I don't want it, whatever it is. Let me sit here and be consumed. 
Nothing. So of course there must be something better. And that...thing...over there wasn't perfect. It took a lot of work to keep in the air. But...wasted labor? Never! You want results. You'd choose it again in a heartbeat.  
And after several heartbeats, you wonder, uncomfortably...would you? And that makes you cry all the harder. The faintest hope that it could still be resurrected flutters in your chest...but that would be an utter miracle. 
Come to me. 
Only you can help me. But you're the one who let it crash. I wasn't doing a good job, I know. But it was my best. 
Trust me. 
I'm hurting. 
Get up. Turn around. Step toward me. 
I can't even see right now. 
Do you have faith? 
I lack the strength. 
Have you the will? 
My heart, it hurts. 
Do you trust me? 
I cannot see. Through blood and tears and nerve damage from the heat...I'm blind and all washed up. And my trophy sits over there in a black, smoking crater. 
Do you love me? 
I thought I was so strong. I was trying to do so well. 
Do you believe I know how you feel? 
I know I should believe more.  
Do you believe any way other than mine would make you happy? 
Theoretically, you're right. And I need someone right now. I need a miracle, either in heart or circumstance or both. But I don't have the faith to summon anything from you. I thought I did. But that was in the sky. 
Get up. Step toward me. 
You really want me to abandon that dream? I was finally flying. 
Child...come to me.

What else can you do? Only He can help.

So you get up. Wipe away some of the blood, cradle some of the burns, blink away some of the tears...for one step, anyway. Now you must walk instead of fly. It seems so unfair. Your heart still hurts.

But if you turn away from Him, you have nothing. And that would hurt even worse.

So you turn. And step.

Now what?
Step again. 
I need medical attention. My legs don't work.
Step again. 
 You step again.

And again.

Sometimes you must turn back to look. Some steps you take more quickly than others. Some you cannot take at all for a long time; instead you crumple to the ground and weep and pray for help.

And in those times, He steps. He waits. He calls. He reaches. He does not condemn. Nor does He give you permission to return. He is doctor, builder, consoler, miracle-maker, all—if you but step and let Him.

You don't feel it. But something in you knows it. Knows that faith is more important than feelings. Knows that He is everything, even if He seems so faraway right now. Depends on that. Knows that if you can't stomach His will, you have no help.

So you step. And He steps. You step. He steps. You cry. He reaches. You look behind. He waits. It causes more pain. But He's still there. You don't know where you're going. But He just says Step.

At some point, you will reach Him. And He will help you fly again. Maybe next time you'll have a better craft...or at least the ability to fix that one and land it better. Whatever He wills is what must happen. Is what is right.

So you step.

And when you step, He steps too.


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