From the Dust

I’m a passionate person.

I often do not live the inside outwardly – and I’m eaten alive by the suffocation of self. Fire teases me and tides pull me deeper. Thundering voices drenched in fervor cause my heart to pound and my spirit to soar. Scenes of beauty move me to submission and there is no love like that of the passionate.

Surrender is for the zealous and I know it’s for me.

I listen to her voice as she sings, no it’s more than that. She’s releasing, multiplying, worshiping. Word after word and song after song – impossibly glorious, dripping with the sound of heaven. I want to take the beauty of her voice, the deep passion of her soul cry, and etch it into my skin. I want to fuse it with my bones: make it a part of me. It’s like purity-love made to the artist through his masterpiece, within the bounds of a delicate body, and uncontrollably—gratefully—spilled out for all to see.

That kind of radiance is ecstasy that begs to be participated in.

It is beauty I desire—beauty I resonate with on the deepest of levels. But I don’t have that kind of voice. I can’t strip bare and fill lung and empty out bliss… Or can’t I?

Maybe my singing voice doesn’t represent the beauty of my soul cry, but God has given me words of striking resemblance. He gave me the gift of words. Words that not everyone has. Words that express the beauty within me, His beauty within me, in a tangible way.

The patterns of nature encircle me with steadfastness and patterns of thought have enthroned pages throughout time. I speak a native language of laughter but there is a higher passion-language—the mother tongue of my being—that pleads to be heard too.

So give me the chance to express, to create, to love with these oceans at the end of pens and keyboards. When I have wrestled with the tongue and wrangled with the throat, I glide with ink and find belonging in the scrawl of my hand.

Within the symbols that make a language, I find freedom to be. My ability to express self was quenched very early on, but through the pounding of these keys I fight what was lost and I find a voice of wisdom and strength. I am stretched transparent and all is on the line for me to be judged. But it must be worth it—to be heard—when I have stayed silent all my life.

To release this is to release my suffering. To write is to step onto ground that was stolen from me and pour water onto its barrenness.

And that verse says, “Let the weak say, ‘I am a warrior’”. I stand tall and I wage a war through my words, a war of perseverance with the one who dried up my wells. I fight with honor unseen and grace resilient. I fight for dignity—no matter what I appear to be, what I was told to be, I am more and I will not quit.

So this is part of my battle, and I win this round and lose another, but I always keep going. I write and I bust out of seems, scrape dirt off my past, wash away the shame of my mistakes and the pain of my perpetrators. When I write I am real, and I am strong. All those years of torment at their hands and all those teeth that gnawed me up whole—they fade into the backdrop of my life and become a platform:

A stage for God’s beauty and glory to be painted brilliantly on the canvas of my story, on the canvas that is me.

And from the dust my words are crowned with holiness as they mature with the fullness of their testimony.