why i'll never be the same.

In one week, I leave the home I love.

Life as I know it will change. Things won't ever be the same again. I am leaving so many loved ones. Deserting so many possibilities. Giving up my sanctuaries, places filled with memory, rooms bursting with the times I grew into who I am today and spilling over with the moments when I stood bare before God. When I became His. I'm leaving it all behind.

My first instinct is to hide, and my first reaction is to fear.

Oh fear, cold fear.

Whenever change comes upon me, I moan and say, "I hate change." My mom looks me in the eyes, sees the daughter she knows well, and says, "I know." Adapting doesn't come easily to me. But worry does. Anxiety, overthinking, and paralysis do. They don't even take a snap of my fingers. Boom. They're there, my blood seeped in them.

And I hate that.

I do not want to be one consumed with fear, ruled by fear.
Fear enslaves. Fear doesn't come from God. Fear comes from the Prince of Darkness.

So I'm begging you, Jesus. Break the chains of fear. Burn the bonds that are wrapped 'round my wrists.

Love casts out fear. Your wounds, received for my sake, should cast out my fears. I shouldn't be afraid. I should be fearless.

Bold.

Unashamed.

Embracing all you have planned for me. Even when I can see no further ahead than my feet below me.

Oh Abba. Why do I have the spirit of fear, and not of adoption? I ache to have what you give. A spirit of adoption, my first reaction to be a cry out you, my first instinct to not be fear. . .but peace.

Peace which only sprouts from the confidence you give. Emerges from the light that shines from your face. Peace which is born from Faith.

Yes, oh yes! That is what I want. Faith.
Faith abounding.

That's what I want my blood to be seeped in.

Holy Spirit, fill me up to the overflowing. I need you. I can't bear any fruit without you. I have no gifts without you. I need you so that I won't stay the same. So that I'll be forever changed.

       I am, I'm leaving.

I'm leaving my father, my mother. I'm leaving my city, my friends, my past. Leaving possessions, papers, and panic. I'm leaving my house, my block, my room - all which are sights well-worn and places well-loved. I'm leaving all that. But do you know what I think?

I don't think I'm leaving my home, anymore.

Because home's not here, not there. It's not Seattle or Minneapolis.

Home's not a place.

Home is a person.

His name is Jesus.

Anticipating Goodbye

At times, I just need to write something out. It might be a choppy poem or a single sentence, but I record little pieces of my thoughts in my phone when the moment comes upon me. Here is one of them.

* * *

I remember sitting on the porch

smelling the honey air-

and then

the realization.

This is my last spring at home.

And the melancholy crashed upon my insides

like a wave on the shoreline rocks.

Last spring. Me, here, as I am. Mom and Dad. Home.

And I remember too, standing on the sidewalk with shovel in hand,

the hazy glow of the streetlights after a snowfall.

The familiar feeling of the city at night, the snow freshly fallen. 

Even if it was April, I thought:

My last winter.

My last winter home. Me here,

snowflakes in my hair, the enchanted city,

the world muffled by the snow, 

the sky that certain color that only exists when it has just snowed in the night.

And I can see it coming, too, when I will bend over the garden, 

dirt in my fingernails and crowning my knees. 

When I'll unpin crisp and windswept clothes from the clothesline, 

or stand with hands in soap and murky water, washing the dishes, 

and face to the window letting the summer night in.

I'll hear it in the crickets:

Anna, you're leaving.

Bittersweet.

Goodbyes -

are sticky, horrendous, heartbreaking.
They make my tears flow, my snot run, my emotions work like a pregnant mother's, always on the brink of tears or anger. Feelings are on my sleeves and that makes me embarrassed. And I can't even show emotion when I wish to, and I say the wrong thing, and I can't leave things right and
I hate goodbyes,
with all their pressure, the pressing weight of the
knowledge
that these are the last moments. Last glances and hugs and words to be exchanged.
And if the others don't feel the same overflow as me,
that's even worse. They're all risky and yucky and mucky. Like puddles, like dreary days, exhaustion.

They are blue. 

Goodbyes -

are beautiful. In their rawness and
how they make us cling
to every last memory and touch and hope.
How all of our shadows come to light and we can expose ourselves in a passionate whirlwind of emotion and honesty and unashamed bareness. It's freedom. And light. And a lifting of all reservedness.
Hugs and kisses, warmth and leaning.
And my palms are opened to what's ahead, my control is gone, and I must admit that there's nothing I can do, there's nothing left to be done, because I am nothing and I'm not the Puzzle-Maker.
This truth hits me roughly
and

They are red.

Goodbyes are blue and red,
in what's past and ahead.

A splashing, a collision of
contrast and
paradox.

And now I know that Goodbyes are
Purple.