It's been 3 weeks since I felt all was right in the world. And by right, I don't mean perfect. Just right enough with the hope that 2018 would carry me into a much needed and worked for breakthrough. I actually thought that I deserved a breakthrough--how egotistical of me?--that I had put in the work, that I had parted with a lot in order to embrace this calling, that I had said "yes" to God enough times to warrant a turning of the tides in 2018.
I. Was. So. Wrong.
I sit here with unpacked suitcases on my bedroom floor, afraid to say goodbye to the wonderful week I spent at home during the holidays--afraid to unpack the memories of the best Christmas I've had in many many years.
Afraid to unpack.
It was the quiet before the storm. For the first time in years, we opened presents around the Christmas tree with mom. I spent the rest of the day with dad and my brothers and cousins and aunts and uncles and nephew. I ate gumbo and drank bourbon. I played cards with mom that night. It was awesome--the beauty out of ashes that I'd prayed for. Not perfect, but awesome.
I'm afraid to unpack and put away those memories. I still have gifts sitting in my living room in the gift bags they came in. Afraid to unpack. They are remnants of the quiet before the storm--an imperfect but hopeful time.
But here's the thing: we can't move through life freely with unpacked baggage weighing us down. Healing is not possible unless we unload the stuff that triggers the pain. We are a band-aid and baggage culture. Instead of cleaning the wound, we bandage and busy ourselves, as to distract ourselves from the blood dripping down our chests. Yes, the blood dries...eventually... but are we really healed?
I'll unpack soon.
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