Tuesday, October 6, 2015

My Story for His Glory:: I Am the Only One Who Can Take This Journey #TellHisStory




The surrounding walls are chalky-white on cement. The kind that cover your hand in fine dust if you run your finger over them. It's a transport to the 1940's. There are screechy, squeaky wheels of the medicine cart or is it the taller cafeteria cart?

A meaty hand raps hard on the door. My roommate has been crying off and on, in and out, for the last three hours. She rises from her bed and lays back down for the tears and torment are the same.

I have little to offer but a hand to cheek and sweetly saying 'Jó lesz, Viktoria. Jó lesz.' I don't know that it will be okay, yet I hope and pray so. They inject her with a sedative so she can rest. 

And how am I here? That is a part of the story I hope to put to page...one day. For now, it is enough to say my mind couldn't be trusted for a while. This has brought me here. I have had my own injections, one and then another, and they were too strong for me. So there have been three days in the ICU as I am unable to breathe.

But, I am coming through to the other side. 

And I will One Day be safely on that shore, forevermore. The one with sparkling rivers, seas of glass and streets made of gold that glistens. Where all tears have dried but the emotion is heartfelt. Yes, One day, soon, I will be there.

But, now I live here. And the story can be told all full of making it through and the final victory of Heaven. It's an amazing reality that awaits and I cling to it with all I most deeply am.

But, I live here. And my story is not one served best with its neat stack, pat of butter and real maple syrup poured just so. No. This is not the story I must journey to know, live and speak.

For now, at times, the sea of glass cuts flesh all shards of what is broken. The river runs muddy with its debris crashing over and making dirty. And the streets? Rutted and potholed and the falls are many.

And this authentic journey of my story is one only I can take. I would most want Mama to hold my hand, but it's more than thirteen years since she went to Heaven. My twin sister, too, but we each have our own lives and far apart besides. Sometimes I soul-beg for my husband to make it all better or for my kids to fill in all the cracks.

Then it all starts to hemorrhage. And I know.

I am the only one who can live my story. I must face each wound or pain. I must receive each joy or gift. Many hold my hands along the way, but they have their stories. At times our paths intertwine so fiercely, but no, our stories are not the same.

It is so important to see this. Because sometimes the hardest, bravest thing to do is live my very own story. I can live the past, what-I-was-or-did story, whether good or bad. I can live the victory story where it is all better. I can live the fearful-anxious story, hemmed in and hiding. I can live the future story where glory is all I see.

But can I live the 'I am in a broken world yet being made new' story? Can I live redemption? Where I am present to acute pain and torment such as I never want to live again? And I don't deny it nor does it have power over me? Can I live with unwavering, resilience where each piece of my own unique story has a beautiful weight that far outweighs its ugly?

It is a huge task to live my story so. Yet, when I commit to such living I can never be satisfied with less. I grow so weary of the pretending and take my stand for what is real.


It is also a treasure to live my story so. Because only in Jesus can I. Only through His perfection wrapping me tight and secure, can I share any bit of my story. Only through Him can I lay down the acceptance of others or their understanding and simply...be His. Only through Him can I know a courage deep enough to walk this journey. 

As his beloved, this story--my story, is the only one given to me before time as it lays out before me, weaving its hand through the days of my one little life.

So how can I choose anything but to live it?

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