I’ve spent so much of my time in fear that I wouldn’t be taken seriously, wouldn’t be understood, or wouldn’t be respected for who I am. Thank you for teaching me that I can surround myself with people who do listen to my boundaries. I’ve spent even more time ashamed of the thoughts and actions that I thought were unholy, ungodly, or not what I should think. However, you reminded me that the shoulds are almost always wrong and there is nothing unholy about struggling with trauma.
I often felt like I was too young to make a change or learn things on my own. But you’ve always been preparing me for this time of growth and discovery. I thought I was exaggerating or seeking attention through my scars, even though it really was that hard. I realized today that you see suffering differently than me. Where I see pain you see fire in the kiln solidifying your masterpiece.
I lost my voice and I was scared it wouldn’t come back. You just held me, until you healed me, and I know that you’d do the same again. I wish it wasn’t so hard for me to remember my identity. I wish it didn’t take so much from me to learn that you loved me, even before the moment I said, “bi.” I couldn’t change a thing if I tried.
Even though I raised myself and taught myself how to survive, I’m grateful that this is my story and grateful I’m alive. Without the good times, the bad times, and the crying until I fell asleep times, I wouldn’t be me and, now, that’s the only thing I wanna be. It took all of the pain for me to trust myself and love myself. I lived through the heartbreak so I could love the ones I lost through the heart ache.
After I became disabled, you told me nothing had changed. I only saw a broken body and a fatigue-stained face. Everything had changed in my life and you still told me that I would change the world one day. You didn’t let go even when I begged you to. You didn’t let go even when I said I hated you. You didn’t let go even when I blamed you for everything that I’ve gone through.
And, today, my head hurts and my heart is crying for the ones we’ve lost, but I will keep on holding on to you. I’m not going to be perfect everyday and I’ll probably tell you that I never want to talk again when I don’t get my way. Today, I know there is hope beyond the hurt. I learned the phrase “ashes to ashes, dust to dust.” When you knit me together, you saw the stars. Everyone else (including myself) saw dust. But, today you whispered in my ear, “Talitha kumi” and now we’re here.
Next time, the walls start caving in and there’s nothing left to say, I pray that you would speak for me. When the colors start to fade and the whole world turns to grey, I ask that you would see for me. When I stop trying to understand and love won’t interfere, wrap me in your arms so tight that I begin to feel.
This post was inspired by an amazing sermon I recently watched by Dr. Emilie M. Townes. One thing she said that stuck out to me was “We must let folks know what it is like to sing the song of Zion, without hesitation or falter, because it’s a good thing to speak life into the power of love and justice and hope and oneness instead of hoarding God’s good gifts in our minds…We’ve got to sing. We may sing our songs in feared times. We may sing them off-key sometimes. But we sing these songs of Zion.”
I want you to know that this is a reminder that there is still hope for you and that you are immensely loved. I wrote this for you so that you would know there is nothing about being disabled, being queer, or being authentically you that God is ashamed of. When I think of myself going from dust to dust, I hear a gentle correction. I was meant to be different. I’m going from stars to stars and so are you because going from dust to dust just isn’t our style, fellow human. God supports you 100%, so take care of yourself. Keep on keeping on!
To anyone else who feels inspired by this or Dr. Townes, this poem/prayer/journal piece is going to be the first in a series of “songs.” If you would like to share your song with the world, I would love to hear from you here. The only requirements are that your songs are of love, less than 1500 words, and genuine within the writing. Be vulnerable! Of course, I wrote this in my poetic style. If you aren’t as poetic, that’s okay. Write whatever God gives to you.
