Lake of Black Things.

The_Song_of_the_Lark
If betrayal was a compass, leading me to a place in which freedom of heartbreak would greet me, I would walk through knee high deep snows, rugged steep- life threatening- mountains, sloshy gripping mud, and cross the most rapid of streams to get to that place. However, I am in need of solitude. I am in need of a security that can only be brought by the divine. I have rested in the arms of man, but they are not the arms of the absolute. They are the arms of the maybe’s. They are the arms of the could be’s and the think so’s. To rest in and assurance, obedience, and omnipotence. It is beyond my control. Secrets and lies. Lies and secrets covering me like a parcel to be shipped away with a no return address, to be lost forever. To be missed by no one. Is this my fate, my date, my undesirable actuality? No, it is the average life of the average woman, living in the average time of a broken world. Is there a hope? Of course there is. There always is. Truth must rise from the ashes and bring the darkness down into the lake of black things, like hatred, loneliness, shame, bitterness, and death.

Image Credit: The song of the Lark, by Jules Breton

Bridge.

I feel like I have been resting this day on a bridge. It is the bridge in which I rest my head on its support. I can see the river below. I can also see the one side of the bridge leads to the still pastures promised in Psalm 23, while the other side a reminder of the bothered remnants of a palace created without the Master’s hand. It is good to see hope, but better to be in it.