I was leafing through old journals awhile back, I found this poem & scripture scrawled in one from the summer of 2005, I was 15.  I think I wrote it more out of hope than out of the reality I was living at the time. I feel like I could re-write these exact words today…

—-

i watched a life,
while You whispered about maps and lights into my ear.
it was only after i crossed that black hallway that i understood.
and that life that i was watching
turned out to be gone.
i found myself
stepping up onto a pedestal sinking lower in the ground.
You asked me, “what do you know about being better or, anything, really?”
and it was always like that You spoke in questions that gave me better answers than the answers themselves.
but i stayed under my covers and trembled
and told myself i couldn’t love someone i’ve never met,
so You introduced Yourself to me
and shook my hand.
i haven’t been able to sleep in 2 days.
when word came around that i was just trying to be like someone else,
i only said i wanted to be like You
and i’ve never been more like myself.

“How horrible it will be for the one who quarrels with his maker. For he is pottery among other earthenware pots. Does the clay ask the one who shapes it, “What are you making?” Does your work say to you, “There are no handles.”?”
ISA/45/9