Can't live without Your Presence

You say I am nothing without love. I will have lived a pointless life if I never learn to love. If I never offer love or experience it. . .

and I know I am not love.

Your presence is the only thing that can change me. It's your hand, your anointing, your fire that will refine me like gold.

I am nothing without your presence. I can't live without it.

It's the only thing that keeps me alive. It's the only thing that could ever set me apart.

It's the only thing that satisfies my ardent, thirsty soul.

Without it, I can't go on. I'm lost without your guidance.

When I feel your presence walk into a room, I feel alive again. I feel the strength filling my bones. And when you fill me up? I'm never the same again.

I feel your imprint on my insides. My perspective transformed. Life fades away, all my worries are untied like broken shackles. I'm no longer my own master. You are. Your Holy Spirit catches my heart on fire and I'm filled with desire for you. Passionate love rises up inside of me - because when you love me, I can't help but respond.

Without your Spirit, I am filled with despair at the failure I am. When you come and meet me, though? That is when my aching despair flees. It flees like the dark of the night at the coming dawn. And I am filled with hope. Hope that I will never remain in this rut. I will never sit still in my sins for long. I will never remain who I am today, because even if I can't see it,

you change me.

Lord, there is nothing makes me more sure of myself, and my place,
than standing in the
face of your glory.

For I was made to drink of your life.

His Way

I've got a brain and personality wired to hope.

That may sound like a good thing.

But most of the time? It's not. I tend to count on things, you see. And not just occasionally or lightly, but with an inner ferocity. I imagine up all these dreams and scenes and moments of perfection. And pretty soon I'm believing that life will actually turn out like it does in my mind, like it plays through my eyelids when I'm thinking on my bed. I'm an idealist. Maybe not a typical one, but I've got a fierce grasp on seeing things turn out like I want.

Wired to hope is the wrong wording. I should call it something else. I don't know what it is, quite, but the fruit of it is that I'm not flexible, I'm disappointed, and I end in a deflated mass crumpled upon the floor.

It's only when disappointment kicks in that I remember what truly matters.

That's what's beautiful.

God knows this flaw of mine. He knows it, and He often lets it play out. It can frustrate my narrow heart. It's when I've finally hit that low point again - of weakness and feeling embittered by the fact that I can't control a thing - that's when He nudges in with that sweet whisper.

He says,
"Hey Anna,"
and I try to interrupt Him, but He's so gently insistent. His strong, loving wisdom pours in to break down my wall of flesh and crooked ideals. 

"Anna.

I know what I'm doing.

I watch you try to plan out that life of yours. I watch you get hurt by your ways. I see you, crying and hiding in the bathroom. You never end up happy or satisfied when you try to grab the reins.

I know better. I know best.

Remember this.

Lean on me. Keep on leaning into me. You'll always fall when you shrug off my guidance and trust in your own strength rather than mine.

It's my way that satisfies.

And Anna? I know you forget. I know you're only man. I know this more than you do. And I see every time you fall, and it breaks my heart. I want to give you a way that will give you the most joy. I can't promise that you won't get by without gaining scars, but in the end,

you will have no regrets.

So leave all you have, stop fishing in empty waters. Get up, immediately, and follow me.
Beloved, follow me.

For my way will not let you down."

save me from myself.

I feel like all I am is one
huge

mass

of regret.

A coil of ropes, impossible to untangle. That's what I am.

I've said so many wrong things. So many careless things. How many times have I blurted out a harsh comment and seen the pain flicker across someone's face? And I try to pretend that I didn't notice. I try to pretend it didn't happen.

For, if I slowed enough,
I would feel sick. Wholly disgusted. I would feel how dirty I am and the bile would rise in my throat.

And I'm always too scared to apologize.

That is the worst kind of coward.
Someone too scared to speak up and admit they were wrong.

But that's me. A coward.

I never stop to think of what I'm doing.

I am recklessly extravagant in my choice of words, my way of living, my
hurry
hurry
hurry
to get by without stopping to feel the extent of the shame buried within me.

I am the worst friend.

The worst.

Sometimes, I hear myself talking and I want to silence that fool I hear speaking. That person's a selfish pig. She doesn't even listen to other people. She goes on and on, stifling others, complaining, scowling, sulking, sitting stubbornly.

She's a coward in denial of who she really is.

Still, this I know:

There's still a small, intense, throbbing part of me

begging

to be saved. 

Losing Sight

*A (slightly edited) journal entry I wrote when I couldn't sleep at 2am today. Sometimes my mind just can't stop churning.

And by the way - the 'you' is just as much to you as me. I needed to hear this, I needed truth. And one of the best ways for me to meet God is in writing. So I hope you don't feel preached at, only challenged and reminded with love by someone just as lost as you.

Have you ever felt as if you no longer know who you are?

And because of that disconcerting realization, feeling, haunting. . .
the whole of life is derailed for you?

The one thing you knew so certainly, the one thing you thought you had full iron control over, the one thing that matters - your identity - is shattered. Hurled into the dark, swallowing sky. Snatched from your grasp.

But really, when the curtain is pushed aside,
it is only an illusion of control that is shattered. You misplaced, overestimated the value of that feeling. And you lost sight of truth.

Oh the truth that you forgot.

How small you are. How little strength you truly possess. How much time and energy you pour into making yourself into someone, into feeling  like you made yourself someone valuable.

There's a Rock. He's a Potter too. Waiting patiently. Waiting for you. And he's desirous for your heart, this Lover and Bridegroom. He's so willing, so ready to answer, if you would only ask. If you would only remember him, he would give you more of his presence. If you would only hate your sin, only repent, seek holiness with a broken bowing and prayers whispered. . .

he would make you new.

He, he would make you into Someone.

But you're caught up in your illusion, your dreamed puppet show. You're addicted to feeling good, feeling strong and capable.

But that's not where you belong.

You belong in feeling weak.

You ought to be addicted to that need, that steady yet rippling feeling, that position of lowness. Ever leaning.

For it's a reminder that you're not enough. It's a thrusting. And in your consciousness, in your living, if you're leaning, you can't forget that you're not alone.

Not me.

Some people come alive when they are in front of people. Their personality sparks like flint struck it. They feel exhilarated, awakened, alive. They are at home with these people. They can pour themselves out from their depths in front of these people. They can say the right things. They can express themselves well.

I don't.

I close up. Clam up.
Put my head inside my shell.

There's something about when I go up to say my speech,
or begin to play a song on guitar to someone,
or try to tell someone something,

that's hard.
Something in me dulls and never comes out right.
Whether I prepare, whether I let words roll out spontaneous-
there I am, afterwards,

always fretting over what I should of said.

It's when I'm alone, that I come alive.
It's when I write, it's when I paint carefree.
It's when I see you and smile but don't say a thing at all.

It's then that I'm not noticing,
just
being.

Just living.
It's when my insides come out smoother than a water-worn rock.
When the trying is over.
The thoughts can roll around in my ahead, free as music.

Sometimes, it may seem like this is not the case to others. To you. And maybe it isn't all the time. (In fact, I think I'm half extravert, half introvert.) But, sometimes, I sense a front being put on, a wall sliding down, something slicking over me like oil. I'm loud and bold and silly. Yet somewhere inside, I always have a nagging tug within me that's telling me that this isn't really what I'm feeling on the inside. 

And I believe learning to understand oneself is important. Intrapersonal communication.

But there's only so much understanding of myself I can have.

So, this is the way I'm wired.

The more pressing matter is--
what will I do with it?

I find that it's important to use your wiring as a tool. Acknowledging your wiring is the first step, but what matters is: 

how do you love with the way(s) God made you?