A Kaleidoscope of Imaginings

Black on White

Rachel — Mon, 30 Aug 2010 06:47:28 +0000

She twirled a curl around her finger then let it spring back into a tight spiral. Boing. Absentmindedly she twisted another curl and, in turn, let it bounce back as well. The computer screen in front of her was unrelentingly bright, the blinding whiteness unmarred by the typed, black eloquence of written words. Thoughts escaped her mind. She certainly couldn’t focus despite her love of writing and interest in the project. Her boss wanted her to create a blog – “What I Wish I Knew” – her perspective as a senior on her life freshman year. She was excited; the creation of the blog would both be fun and look amazing on her resume if she wanted to pursue any career or path involving writing in any form. But she just didn’t know what to write. Her boss had given her complete liberty. She could make this as personal as she wanted. Or vice versa. The choice was hers. She didn’t mind sharing her life; she had multiple blogs for various projects. But freshman year. Freshman year had certainly been quite an experience. She wasn’t sure if she was ready to share all that had happened that year. She hadn’t fully admitted all that had happened to herself. She hadn’t fully dealt with the abuse. She still struggled with issues, with the concept of being a survivor. She still blamed herself. The consequences of being abused were slowly becoming a reality. Shaping her life. She was now passionate about letting everyone know that each individual person is loved. Everyone has a voice; each person’s opinion and desires matter. Helping other victims of abuse was a life goal. But she didn’t know if she was ready to spill all of those details now. To share her story. But maybe now was the time. Maybe her story could touch and help others who read it – give them someone to relate to so that they wouldn’t feel alone like she did. Maybe it was time to face her past. After all, it left a trace that affected her present, which would affect her future. With another twist of her hand, she twirled her hair back out of her face and began to type. The blank page soon began to fill with words that only she could write. Her unwritten story was only hers to tell.

A Long Evening

Rachel — Mon, 30 Aug 2010 06:46:28 +0000

She glanced up from the novel she was reading. The clock on her wall revealed that only an hour had passed since she had begun to read. She rubbed her eyes, disappointed. She just wanted the evening to come to an end, but it was only 9 o’clock. It was Day 3. Day 3 of potentially the longest week of her life Almost halfway over. She quickly calculated how many more hours she would have to continue to not talk with her best friend. 93 more hours. With a sigh, she resigned herself to the feasibility of the prospect. Those 93 hours included sleeping, working, and going to class. It was only the evenings that really dragged along. Her other friends were all busy. She was left alone with her thoughts and homework that wasn’t really due until the following week. She had decided to write her papers early for two reasons. One – just to keep busy and have something to do. Two – to have free time the next week when she could talk with her best friend again. They were taking a week apart. To clarify their relationship. To provide clarity about how they felt about each other. To seek God’s will for their lives, His desires and plans for their relationship and for their futures. It had proven to be an interesting three days. She had realized so much. Lost in her thoughts, she absentmindedly reached for the bottle of Jones Strawberry Lime soda on the table next to her. As she sipped the bright red beverage, she was brought back to reality. She glanced back at the clock. Only 10 minutes had passed. She still had plenty of time. There was an upside to all the time she had on her hands. She had decided to read part of the ever-growing stack of books. She had time to finish the novel she was reading, write an outline for the book review she had to write for her history class, and finish another novel she had started a few weeks ago. It would be a good evening. She enjoyed reading. And she had already played her guitar, even taught herself a new song, and worked on her blog. She had also been able to spend time with God, her Daddy. She loved journaling. Actively writing her thoughts helped her to organize them. It alleviated her desire to explode. Regardless of whether or not they dated, she and her best friend would have to change their relationship. They needed to have more fun and pursue interests that they each enjoyed. And God needed to be first in each of their lives and in their relationship. God was her Daddy. He would comfort her with His peace. He would reveal His plans and desires for her life. For his life. And her Daddy would give her the strength to trust. She and her best friend had already dated and broken up three times. She didn’t want her heart to be shattered – stomped-on – again. But if he wanted to date after seeking God, after gaining clarity, then she would say yes. And her Daddy loved her. Her Daddy wouldn’t lead him astray.

A Moment

Rachel — Thu, 15 Oct 2009 18:49:16 +0000

As she tapped the ash off the tip of her cigarette, she leaned into his embrace as he walked up behind her on the balcony and slid his hands around her waist, pulling her close. With a slight flick, the burned out cigarette fell from her hand. She twisted around, lingering in a hug before gently brushing his lips with a kiss. He responded, leaning into her for another kiss. For a brief moment, their eyes met in an intense gaze. Their eyes were windows into their souls; they unashamedly shared their vulnerability with each other. She was the closest person to him – both best friend and lover. He loved her dearly and couldn’t imagine life without her. God had truly blessed him.

Their gaze ended with the kiss. He wrapped his arms around her, holding her tightly, never wanting to let her go. She cherished his embrace and responded to being held by pulling him as close as she possibly could. As their bodies fit perfectly together, he whispered into her ear. ”I love you.” Three simple words. So simple, yet so powerful. She snuggled her head into the crevice of his neck. ”I love you too.” With another tightened hold, their embrace ended. They truly cared for each other. With a simultaneous thought, they both reached for a cigarette. After lighting hers, he lit his and took a long drag. With her exhale, she began to tell him a story about her day. And with that, conversation was sparked. The intimate moment was over, though the sincerity and care lingered still.

Held

Rachel — Tue, 13 Oct 2009 00:14:23 +0000

As he reached into the fridge to grab a gallon of milk, she sat down on the edge of the table. She was exhausted. Drained. Beside herself. Just overwhelmed with life. She looked down, averting his gaze as he looked up over the door of the refrigerator. Tears began to fill her eyes. He softened his voice, asking her what was wrong. Why was she frustrated? His voice calmed her, giving her the courage to look up and meet his eyes. She began to cry as she tried to find the words to answer. He came over, standing next to her, putting his arm around her, pulling her close. In the comfort of his embrace, she broke down.

Tears streamed down her cheeks. She relaxed as he held her close. Slowly she began to pour out the concerns and frustrations that weighed heavily on her mind. He listened and spoke truth to counter the lies she was beginning to believe. He took care of her, telling her to go to bed and get some sleep, then walking her back to her room and tucking her in. He leaned down and kissed her cheek before climbing in next to her and holding her tightly. He loved her dearly. She was such an amazing woman, so beautiful and strong even in her breakdown. He loved being there for her – holding her. And she felt loved being held as his presence soothed her to sleep.

Two Poems

Rachel — Fri, 11 Sep 2009 16:09:03 +0000

Untitled
O God, here I am
I’ve failed again
o where to begin?
I try, and try, and try
planning, trying, hoping to be different
yet it is all the same.
I’ve seen this before.
I’m overwhelmed with my shame.
I must be insane.
I’m such a mess.
So broken. So shattered. Scattered.
But You are my hope.
My comfort. My peace.
Your steadfast love overwhelms.
And cleanses me new.
For that, I thank you.
Jesus, I need You.

The Storm
The day begins, bright and sunny.
Clear – not a cloud in the sky,
nor a worry on my brow.
Yet as the afternoon passes,
a cloud appears, capturing my attention.
I am fascinated by the shapes
as clouds continue to appear.
Slowly, I realize that the sky is covered in grey.
Ominous.
Clouds pervade my mind and furrow my brow.
As night approaches, the storm breaks.
Worries flood my mind, overwhelming my soul.
Rain pours, drenching.
Beating relentlessly.
I am soaked. Washed.
Cleansed.
As the dawn breaks, the sun reappears.
The broken, dead grass
now glints bright and green.
I am refreshed. Strengthened.
The storm has passed.
And all is well.

The Morning After

Rachel — Thu, 10 Sep 2009 21:14:56 +0000

She sat on the edge of her bed, wrapped in a towel, hair dripping wet. Overtaken with apathy, she grabbed a pillow and collapsed into a ball. She didn’t want to deal with life that day. She was tired; she had only gotten 3 hours of sleep. The previous night had turned out to be quite eventful and unexpected. Now, she was emotionally distraught and exhausted. Completely burned out. But she couldn’t sleep now. She had to get up. Go to work. Go to class. Take a make-up exam and quiz. She had to deal with her life. Face the ramifications, both real and possible, of the previous evening. A mistake had been made. Intentionally. That much was clear. But what she didn’t know was whether or not she would love her best friend. She wouldn’t blame him if he completely turned on her and walked away from their friendship. At some point, the vast majority of her friends had left her. Abandoned her. She just assumed that eventually all of them would.

With a final sigh, she sat up, looked at the clock, and decided what she wanted to wear. Black. Such a comfort color for her. And one that hid her. She wanted to be invisible. She wanted to run away. Instead, she stood up and methodically walked over to her dresser, opened the drawers, and pulled out a green tank, a black polo, and jeans. Comfortable clothes. Comfort clothes. She pulled them on without much thought and picked up a comb to brush her hair. Squirting some gel into her hand, she scrunched her hair and pulled it back. She didn’t feel like dealing with the gorgeous, tangled mass of curls today. Pulling her hair back gave her a sense of control when it felt as if the rest of her world was crashing down around her. And she felt alone; she simply had to deal with anything and everything that happened. She stared into the mirror, vaguely in disbelief. She couldn’t believe that she had done what she did last night – even that she had wanted to. She was ashamed. Repulsed. And hungry.

She wandered to the kitchen, pulled some bread down off the fridge, and popped it into the toaster. While she waited, she poured a glass of milk, decided to buy coffee later rather than make it herself, and sank into deep thought at the table. She had forgiven him, but she couldn’t forgive herself. She was messed up. Her issues ran deep; her actions were only symptoms of that. How could anyone love her now? How could God – her Daddy – love her? She had always run to His arms whenever life was seemingly out of control because He was her Daddy; He loved her. But how could He now? She was wretched. Vile. The ding of the toaster startled her back to reality. She got up, buttered her toast, and washed down her breakfast with milk.

Glancing at the clock, she realized that she had time to change her sheets. After what had happened last night, they smelled. She pulled them off her bed, got a clean mismatched set out of the linen closet in the bathroom, and threw the dirty sheets on the pile of laundry she was going to wash later. They would be washed clean, just like she had been in the shower earlier that morning. God used water, especially rain, as a powerful metaphor in her life. Just like the spray from the showerhead had run over her body and washed her clean, the grace, love, mercy, and forgiveness of God washed over her and renewed both her spirit and her purity. Now she only had to forgive herself for messing around with her best friend last night. But she couldn’t. She knew he liked someone else, another of her best friends no less. Even she had a crush on another guy. She was a miserable wreck. So unworthy. So undeserving of anyone’s love. Of everyone’s love.

As she packed her bag for the day, she picked up her Bible and flipped it open. Psalm 51. Psalm 62. I Corinthians 13. God loves her. Unconditionally. Always. And He had already forgiven her. Overwhelmed her with His love. Cleansed her by His grace. Wrapped His arms around her and held her when she was too weak to carry on and fight for truth. Relaxing into the comfort of her Daddy’s embrace, she gathered her bag and her Nalgene and walked out the door ready to face the day – regardless of whatever it brought. Perhaps she could even forgive herself.