Love Letters For The Sky

I have kept most everything I've written in the past 18 years. Most of it is about God.

June 15th, 2016: 2:27 pm

In my sincerest opinion, being out of the alignment with the Holy Spirit is the most uncomfortable feeling, and not only that, but terrifying, confusing, and empty, like your insides are being scraped out of you.

Like you are full of holes and everything you’ve ever known just leaks out all over the place. Like you’re constantly falling. Like you’re in the middle of a tornado with nowhere to run. There are a million different voices shouting their own opinions, and claiming to be God. So you forget which one to adhere to.

But even in the middle of this, you get the feeling that you’re always on the edge of a breakthrough. You can just make out floodlights through darkness, streamline winds, and heavy rain. Patience wears thin, and you know you must make a decision soon.

If God had truly left you, you have the other option, yet you’ve been there before and the spiritual darkness is foggy and unsatisfying now.

You want to be back and all wrapped up in the warm blanket of grace, but something tells you that you have blown it this time; God would not have you now, and the world is always ready and willing to swallow you up.

Standing in the middle is painful.

You’ve been standing in the middle for months now, or maybe it only feels like months. Time escapes you, and the world tries to label it as mental illness, so you feed into that. Maybe that’s where you belong, with all the others in the darkness, cornered and crying together.

Where is God? You can remember the time when you were so full that you felt like you might burst open and light might explode from your core. When you felt like angels were following you, like God was so close that you brushed His skin. Even the memory of those little touches still ache when you remember them, and they feel so real.

But a grim, crackly voice that sounds more menacing than the rest demands that this God I worship is simply a facade my primitive mind put on to make myself feel a purpose.

Yet nothing can explain the gravitational pull, the constant orbit, the binary star of my heart. That feeling of a breakthrough, those floodlights… It’s constant, hovering, waiting for me to

wake up.

June 18th, 2016: 10:46 am

The tiny voice in the back makes its way to the front. He grips certain parts of my brain, squeezes my desires tightly and laughs while I struggle to stay afloat. I call out to God but I feel like either my cries are muffled or He has turned away from me.

But the God who turns His back on His children is a nightmarish illusion constructed by tricks of the light and fun house mirrors; the real Father is ever there, His hands at the ready to catch us when we fall.

And in this season, I have been teetering on the edge. My muscles ache from holding on, my sleep is disturbed from staring into the bottom of everything, my voice is nearly gone from screaming into the wind.

My skin crawls from the touch of darkness, and my ears are raw from the tiny devils that never stop beating lies into the drums.

But as for my God, I can look behind me, straight into the past and see where He was when I thought He had been long gone. He never left.

I can see the trails where He has carried me, like a mother carrying a sick child up mountains, through wildfires and across seas.

He can say one word, and the chaos comes to a screeching halt; the circus packs up and flees, the winds calm, and the raging storm clears. His words echo through my brain, cleansing every part. It lingers for days.

"Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.”

And mine is poor. My hands are trembling, my eyes strain to see through the celestial sphere, hoping to catch a glimpse of the throne, the water in my blood weeps for the One who poured life into it.

Every part of me longs to break open and let the Holy blood of the Lamb of God inside,

but God,

I feel paralyzed by the electricity of this world. Zapped and stiff, like a corpse. But I know I am partly to blame because I let the worms eat deep down through my rotting flesh and climax at the thought of death.

Spiritual darkness clouds my eyes, punctures my veins, and lulls me to sleep.

Oh, Christ. Just the mere mention of Your name makes my eyes well with salty tears.

Woe to the sinner saved by grace who quenches the Spirit, and is no longer moved by the sound of His name.

I am holistically human, and my battle will never end against the cosmic powers and spiritual forces until my undeserving life is given up to Him. Until that time I am grieved, foaming at the mouth, and never good. I am ripped at the seams like a rag doll.

I am callused from sin. I am always bleeding.

My brain is always on fire.

But one thing is for certain:

“He is with us always, even at the end of the age.”