These weren’t exactly the thoughts I had planned to write. I was all pumped and excited to share with you about the deep love and fascination I have for the people around me, the people who have been my constants for nearly ten months. I was going to invite you into the colors and culture of charming Antigua, and do my best to paint a picture through my words like the flawless watercolors I’ve passed on the streets. I was practically jumping out of my skin with the laughter and joy I have discovered lately and couldn’t wait for it to bubble out of me onto the paper before me.
But I can’t. I’ve tried, and I can’t. I can’t describe a life that seems so unreal and photoshopped that my human mind struggles to grasp it. I lack words to describe the beauty of the volcanoes I see surrounding our humble home. I fight with voices in my head telling me I’m not good enough to appreciate His majestic work that is Guatemala. I wish the tears would flow already; they’ve been threatening to for days.
What I can invite you into is my story. Will you jump into this chapter with me?
—
She had always doubted herself. She constantly compared herself to those around her: height, weight, style, dreams. She was never good enough for herself.
So she ran.
She became really good at running. Hills, flatlands, in different seasons, with different running partners. And while scenery would change, and her partners would eventually tire and return home, she kept on.
Because she feared. And she believed she wasn’t good enough to stop running.
She grew and she learned. She pulled muscles and wore through pairs of shoes. She sought out answers and discovered Truth. She devoted herself to Truth, and in the nights of pain and misery and soreness, the nights when she so badly wanted to run again, she listened. Truth said to be patient. To be vulnerable. So she tried her best.
It was so messy. She eventually fell in love with messy. It was so much more rewarding than running from herself. In the mess, she could truly be and didn’t have to put on a face or reach for her running shoes. It was through messy that Truth began revealing her power to her. She struggled to believe it, but slowly she befriended Value, Worth, Voice, and Laughter. They spoke to her of the power they saw within her, and though it frightened her, she started listening.
Running soon became a lifestyle of the past, and travel began to appeal to her. Secretly it was a form of running as well, because it allowed her to avoid planting roots and staying put. She feared roots.
Life took her on a whirlwind of adventure around the world. It opened her eyes to hardships she couldn’t even fathom, and appreciation for the simplest of things. She let go of what she knew, which allowed Truth a better foothold.
Dirty bare feet and longing for raw conversation became normal to her. Words of life were never poured over her as much as this, and if they were in the past, she merely forgot them or brushed them off for the sake of the run. But because she’d abandoned the run and embraced the messy, she started listening to those words, too. Her friend, Voice, spoke stronger. Laughter and Strength started working together. Worth was viewed as a friend who had an opinion, well, worth listening to. And Truth smiled. She was finally starting to understand.
But so quickly, understanding exploded into pride. It elevated her. It only seemed to make sense, after all: if the same things were spoken, if people really saw her as this talented, artistic person with a knack for writing and singing and listening–why not embrace it? Why not agree? So she stepped into what she was told.
It became almost painful to hear good things about herself. No longer did she linger in the shadows of doubt and longing for empty affirmation. She seemed to become the center of attention overnight, or so she felt. The center was so uncomfortable, but it was also charming.
Worth tried to get her attention and remind her that human words aren’t what pump the heart. Laughter questioned her motives and even the gift of joy the girl had received from their friendship. Voice complained of a scratchy throat from talking too much. Value became pompous and put an expensive price tag on the girl’s thoughts, conversations, and breath.
Truth waited patiently. The girl ran.
Many seasons of life had passed since the last run, but the girl had little hesitation as she grabbed her sneakers and bolted. The habit quickly returned and so did the avoidance of goodbyes.
Truth called out, but the girl refused to slow down. “You wanna know truth?” she gasped between breaths. “I’m scared of myself. I am SCARED OF MYSELF!”
Truth cried. Truth cried because of the pain the girl was carrying. Truth knew the girl was afraid, and was running back to what she knew: slavery.
Freedom is a wide open road with so many choices, and it nearly broke the girl. So to slavery she ran, in hopes that it would numb the overwhelming amounts of love and passion and fire within her that she couldn’t control. And above all, that it would curb her power and destroy her belief in herself.
Color became meaningless. Laughter bleak. Life blurred past her as it had too many times in the past. She befriended Doubt again, its wicked voice in her ear practically a comfort. It seemed easier this way: to accept the dark, to see herself as unwanted and unlovable. She wasn’t sure why, but at least she wasn’t afraid of herself anymore.
Truth hated watching the girl torture herself. “These volcanoes are real! Your love is real! Your heart, if you entrust me with it, is worthy, valuable and pure!” Truth would cry to her in the darkest nights. The girl cried, too, but had no response. What should she do? Be broken and function, or believe Truth and dive all in? Dare she even wish for it, but thrive?
Is there a middle ground between self-doubt and pride? Between outcast and popular? Between loving self and loving others?
The girl questioned. She always questioned. And when she didn’t, she sang. She didn’t know what else to do but sing. Vocal chords raw, she finally collapsed in a heap.
Truth was there. Always was. Always is and always will be, he whispered. She cried, because she couldn’t fathom both the insanity and comfort of such a statement. She, of course, had not yet conquered the demons within, but the only thing that seemed to make sense was a phrase that kept her heart beating, her breath heaving. A prayer on her lips, and the song she realized she’d been singing for years. Truth already knew it, of course, but his kind eyes beckoned her to speak it aloud. Covered in shame and sweat, she accepted his outstretched hand. “Prone to wander, Lord I feel it; bind my wandering heart to Thee!”
—
The heart is complex. It can lie, be puffed up, expect only the best for itself. Pride comes before the fall. But the good news is, Truth will be there to pick you up when you do, and in the process, he’ll whisper, the beauty of Guatemala is for you. The volcanoes every morning are for you. You’re worth it.
Oh, and all those gifts I’ve given you? Let’s open those together.
Sweet Lord, bind my wandering heart to Thee.
“And oh as you run
What hindered love
Will only become
Part of the story
What hindered love
Will only become
Part of the story
Baby, you’re almost home now
Please don’t quit now
You’re almost home to Me.”
Please don’t quit now
You’re almost home to Me.”
[Out of Hiding by Steffany Gretzinger]
