Bear Your Scars

Don’t ask questions

For to receive an answer means

A depletion of ignorance.

And isn’t not knowing sweet to the mind?

But our bliss = your hell.

The desire for our eyes to divert

Your embarrassment only intensifies

Your frustration; metabolizes into loneliness.

A shame untold of anger only allowed

To lash out against its own flesh.

Loathing lines lay across your limbs

Like sticks stacked by a child.

A deep red remnant of pain

Reveals hidden suffering.

Unspoken out of fear of damnation,

You are haunted by the thought

That “empathy” birthed only in the damage

Cleaved into skin;

Your heart’s laceration will repel others

Wanting to know you, wanting to love you.

With three nails, I called out for you

By name - I saw your face. 

The dormant splendor in your soul

Survives, pulsating through your veins, escalating.

May I resuscitate your hope?

What time cannot heal, I want to mend.

Deny the power of nightmares that wake you,

Restore your sleep to its former,

Innocent, glory.

Will you let Me bear your scars?

It breaks My heart to see your spirit

Grovel on the ground, wallow from venomous lies.

With lashes that mark thirty-nine

I have never let you go;

My blood flows, washing your wounds,

Carrying your stripes and tears.

I wish you could see what I see:

You are more precious than the greatest karat,

My dear.  An exciting wonder even the Holiest of Holies

Impatient to invite.

Climb into My arms; rest in My comfort.

The shadow of your past

Can’t haunt you anymore.

I have loved you since the blueprint of your being

Crossed My mind. Admittedly, I was smitten.

I had borne your scars as I exhaled

New life into you: My wonderful, perfect creation.

My body was wrenched, that you might recognize

Your ceaseless beauty. 

My kingly position disowned momentarily

That you may repudiate your wretchedness.

I paid the ultimate cost,

Uprooted the blame you adopted, that you can

Inherit My bottomless, overflowing, blessing:

You are My beloved, in whom I always delight.

(Romans chapter 8; 1 John 3:1)

I wrote this  poem a year ago, after I encountered a student on more than one occasion while subbing.  She was in high school, blonde hair painted a light blue at the tips, and underneath her sleeves, lines revealed that she's had a past of cutting.  I could see more lines peeking through her holey jeans.  I wonder what kind of hell she's been through, to do harm to herself.  I wrote this poem, as a means of what I wish I could say to her, if I had the chance.  I wished so much that I could tell her God loves her, adores her; that she no longer has to hurt, because through Jesus, she can be healed.  

One year later, I'm rereading this poem, something I wrote for someone whom I no longer remember their name, and realizing that I need the words for myself. Poetry is funny like that - written for one purpose, and later is translated into another purpose for another person.  I just didn't figure on that "other person" being me.  The author needing her own words to beg for help.  Who would've thunk?  Actually, I thought I was over this whole self-condemnation thing back when I finished college.  But with new chapters in life come new challenges, and depending on how the day ends, one either feels like a success or a failure. 

There has been a pain inside me growing, condemning my identity as a person.  Some scars can be plainly viewed.  Like my former student, they peer through fabric with the movement of a limb.  However, many scars have to be understood to be seen.  And the scars that I have hidden are such.  I used to look in the mirror and lash out against my own reflection.  For what I saw physically; what I saw emotionally; spiritually.  I would despise what I saw.  I would curse myself, forgetting what beauty I had within me, because the faults and imperfections I believed I had seemed to be a greater determinant of who I am as an individual.  When I looked in that mirror, I found some reason where I was lacking, compared to my friends and family, and wondered why on earth was I the way I am.  There were moments I decided to carry the weight of the world on my shoulders and try to solve all of its problems...and find myself utterly lacking.  And therefore, utterly a failure.  

Noun; not just a verb.  Identity; not just an action.  

Never mind the playful heart; the life-filled laughter; the never-ending song.  Never mind the sun-kissed hair and freckles that splatter against my cheeks.  Never mind the memory captured through film, or the ability to communicate through pen, nor the difference I have been able to make with kids.  Never mind that I am God's child and fashioned in His image...

A year ago, I wrote this poem as a prayer for a teenager to realize who she truly is, and who she is meant to be.  I wrote it initially, to be a message for what Christ's redemption does for the wounds to peoples' hearts.  And yet, I am in need of this prayer.  I thought I beaten this self-hatred.  Which is why its presence now is so concerning to my soul.   Why is it coming back?  Of course, I KNOW who I am in Christ, and how I am a daughter of God.  So, why is it still being thrown in my face? Nonetheless, there have been secret wounds I did not uttered, because I feared not only the condemnation I brought upon myself, but anxious if others would share the same sentiment.  The result was a rotting spirit, and a forgotten value. 

I have since removed the plank from my own eyes, and revealed to my family the hurt I have dealt with.  And there is healing in knowing that they have stood beside me, prayed with me, and are not willing to let me fall down through cracks laced with lies from Satan.  Am I perfect?  No.  But I am remembering who I truly am, laying behind me the things have held me back, and am marching toward what is ahead (Philippians 3:12-14) .  No longer do I have to bear my scars.  Through Christ, they will fade. 

Remind Me Who I Am

I know that I am supposed to be a light.

But I feel the floods of chaos

Sweep me in its drowning destruction.

Bone against bone,

Flesh oppose flesh.

There is a war and I have been charged

The enemy.

Words composed of stones flail

Towards me; they pierce

And I find my heart amongst the casualties.

Ripped and jaded; warped and hated –

My mind weakened

My reflection blurred to something

Unidentifiable.  Your love forgotten,

I feel a fire raging inside of me.

Lividity given way at the sound

Of every poisonous word.

My soul has cowered

In their shadow.  Fear captures

My confidence, crippling it.

Rescue me once again.

Realign my vision to see entirely, for I was

Not intended to succumb to the defeated lies of hell.

I hear the crying of my children dying,

But if I try to save them, surely I will lose myself. 

Breathe into this dust coagulated as the form

Of the One who carries the heavens. 

Not of my strength do I draw,

But the leaven of salvation

Which is the hope of glory for all. 

A Reflection of Someone Older Than I

     During my first year in teaching, I have done a lot of growing up.  Teaching teenagers has a knack for making one self-scrutinizing to make sure that he or she is a model of who and what they are training their students to become.  Additionally, the truth is that one has to grow up to raise teenagers.  I'm not just a teacher.  I am also part parent and councilor to my students.  I am no longer able to remain the cool "big sister" at youth group. 
     I wonder about them.  I worry about them.  How they are understanding the materials (and not just so they can be personally judged by the letter grade they are given).  However, what really keeps me up is wondering how the livelihood of my students are.  If their home-life is healthy, and if not, how can I make sure that in the eight (or in the case of teaching six different classes, one) hours I have with them are the most safe they can feel.  I worry if I am communicating the right words that I care about them and their future.
     Lastly, I am no longer the ignorant white lady off the Rez.  Sure, I heard about poverty.  But you don't really know it until you see it.  Sure you can acknowledge that drugs are eminent, but you don't really don't think of being proactive until the kids that you care for - yes, they are my kids - are highly likely to be involved in such activity.  I have been yelled at and have been insulted. My stress has grown exponentially and to be completely honest, there have been times I've wanted to quit.  It would be very wise of me to leave after this school year. Why should I deal with this?  Just go back home where things are safe.  Where things don't have to be questioned, and my Christian life can be comfortable.
     All this explanation is leading up to a poem I wrote this morning.  I have grown up a lot this year.  And I still have three months left.  I am not the 20-something who wants to party.  No.  I have become a mother whose thoughts are completely perpetuated with students and their discouraging surroundings.   My body and psyche reveal this as I reflect on this past year.  Not attempting to be facetious, but I could admit there have been some hellish moments.  But then again, I bet a lot of my kids have been too.  So much that there is an expectation to no longer expect.  No longer expect change or restoration in peoples' lives, because the past has always been transferred to the present generation.  However, I have to still believe that anything is possible.  If God has been able to do immeasurable transformations in other peoples' lives (including my own), who is to say He can't do it in the town I call home?

"A Reflection of Someone Older Than I"

Behind the eyes filled with innocence
Are the memories of laughter, smiles;
A childlike carelessness.
They are bright with hope and love
Looking toward the glory in each day.

Underneath these eyes are the deep
Circles darkened with heavy concerns
The night brings with it lack of sleep.
Prayers are full of questions and fears,
Hoping that the yesterdays will not last.

Creases of laughter compete
With the wrinkles of tears;
Skin peeks between the thinning of hair.
Though the body is near twenty-five years of age,
The mind is two decades more.
Youth almost forgotten.

But dreams remain...

A hope for a new day to come, 
Pain will set as joy dawns.
A rose-colored redemption transforms
A cleavage between the past from tomorrows.
Faith for a vision restored,
Yet dare not to abandon til it's seen. 

The Lord Reigns

I have been in a kind of slump off and on at work.  One week I may be doing well, but by the next week, my emotions and mental state are stretched close to a breaking point due to the different factors of stress that is involved.  There are times I want to quit.  There are times I wish I could curl up in a ball, and have God rescue me from whatever hellish experiences I might be having.  Over the course of my first year teaching, I have realized that there are so many weak areas of my personal being, that I often feel crushed when adversity comes my way.  And it runs at me with vengeance.

“God, where are You?”  What the heck are You doing with me; with this place I’m in?”  My questions echo that of King David from the first half of the Psalms.  Rightly so.  There are many a days I reflect on how the day went, and I wonder what went wrong, what did.  Most often the wrong part, because I often struggle getting everything right.  I practice other methods that teachers show me, and somehow, it can still fail me.  I try to be exuberant, and the kids are more put off by it, rather than intrigued.  Either God better fix things right away, or I give up.  At least, that is how I often feel.  

Last Sunday, I was reading through the Psalms, and like most mornings, I was yearning for those verses that would relay that I’m not alone.  Even found one, “…He preserves the souls of the saints; He delivers them out of the hand of the wicked.” – Psalms 97:10.  However, if I allowed my eyes to align with the honesty of my heart, the first line of the first verse was what cried out to me.  “The Lord reigns.”  The Lord reigns.  Whoa.   Stand still.  Out of all the commiserative groans I quietly wailed through the edge of my pen, I was told that the Lord reigns.  That He is King.  

I wonder how often I see Jesus as King.  Or do I just see him as the Savior of my soul and be on my way?  Not that I am not grateful for what His blood did for my soul, but when I see how the world is made up, I often become a middle-weight boxer facing a heavy weight.  Not strong enough, and so I should just jump out of the ring.  I stand on rock, sure.  But only if there is a house to shade me from any horrendous storms of life.  If I was truly honest, though I believe in the salvation from sin, I still become weary at times of the circumstances on earth.  I treat God more like a Prince Charming, ready to save His damsel in distress, rather than the king He is.  I will be the superhero making a difference in this world, God will be my sidekick.  So, what happens when my weaknesses are blatant for all to see?  That no matter what methods or skills I use, they crumble against the wiles of the enemy?  If God is just my Prince Charming, only there to save me when I am in a pinch.  Only there to make me feel all googly inside, then my idea of God has failed me.

I need a king.  I need a king, because I cannot save myself.  Yes, this is easy to say, because we, as Christians often point to the status of our souls.  But that is not the only thing in my life that is wanting of salvation.  Every single aspect of my life is yearning for the redemption of Christ to come to fruition.  I yearn for healing, I yearn for families, for education to be meant something; I yearn for peoples’ identities to be renewed.  And I absolutely am not the superhero that people need in their lives.  I can’t do it.  I can’t do it.  And if I think that a moment of Prince Charming God is all that it’ll take to fix everything, then I need to reflect on my own life and realize that happy endings don’t come as easily as in the fairy tales.  A king whose sovereignty reigns is needed.  

Thing is, we have a king who reigns.  I am beginning to question the sovereignty of my own strength, because I see its tendons stretch and bend, breaking with the pressure of daily storms.  But then, I am back to God being my sidekick.  Only there when I can’t handle it.  No.  The Lord reigns.  The implication is different.  His sovereignty reigns, His lordship reigns.  We can look back to the Genesis account of how everything was questioned and put into disarray, but then fast-forward, Jesus came and realigned, pouring out His blood and body, so that we, the creation made in the image of God could be claimed once again under His name.  However, salvation is not just for our souls, but it’s also for the redemption of this world until a new one is made.

“For the creation was subjected to futility, not willingly, but because of Him who subjected it in hope, because the creation itself also delivered from bondage of corruption into the glorious liberty of the children of God.  For we know that the whole creation groans and labors with birth pangs together until now.  Not only that, but we also who have the firstfruits of the Spirit, even we ourselves groan within ourselves, eagerly waiting for the adoption, the redemption of our body.” – Romans 8:20-23

Furthermore – and this is the best part – the payment has already been paid in full with Jesus.  His sovereignty is still established, and therefore, as king – and one that reigns – we can claim His authority now on earth.  “Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven.”  I am letting God, who is already, and always was the heavy weight running champion go against the heavy weight struggles of life.  He is the Lord who reigns, and He has already won.  What more could I do to achieve the redemption and transformation this earth needs? 

Will life be easy?  No.  There are still matches that will be thrown at us.  Hardships will be pelted our way.  But God has done marvelous things; His right hand and His holy arm have gained (PAST TENSE) the victory.  The Lord has made known His salvation; His righteousness He has revealed in the sight of nations (Psalms 98:1-2).   God has ALREADY gained victory in the – and I will claim, all – areas of life.  He is not the sidekick that we bring along when we need a little bit of help.  He is the Lord, the king who reigns.  We follow His charge, knowing whatever struggles we face, they have already been conquered (Romans 8:37-39).

On a last note, I found this realization of Him being King last week.  I don’t know if I fully understand this concept.  I hope so.  But I always had a tendency to want to do things on my own.  Letting God do the work, without my hand leading the efforts, is a new pitch I have to master.