Hidden Thoughts

Through the many struggles in my life very few things have remained constant. In the truest sense, it is the never failing comfort of a pen and a paper that never waivers. When every hope has fled and all seems lost, I come crying to my pen and my paper. I wonder what this means of my relationship with God? While mentally I know He will never leave me or forsake me, I still have emotional doubts. And while I understand His sovereign will is unfolding just as it should, I still question why me? I don’t understand the full picture, not that I have any right to ask. Many times it has seemed that God has let me down and fallen short on His promise to me; really I am the one who falls short. But my pen and paper have never failed me. So it is no wonder at a time such as this that I would again look here for comfort. In this space of paper and ink, truths reveal themselves to me; like hidden thoughts, treasures, waiting to be discovered. It is here all truths are said and all lies are put away; for in this space I will not be judged. I cannot be found as any lesser of a person for my admissions, other than the scorn I place upon myself. And the coals I have placed, yes I have heaped, upon my head I believe I have reaped justly. Whether ‘tis right or wrong, ‘tis true. While mirrors show my outer appearance, it’s the paper that details the real me. It is here all pretenses are put aside and the soul is laid bare, for those I choose to see. There, yet, remain times I, myself, don’t know the truth, until in utter desperation, I seek this place to discover what I might be searching for. Then, through no conscious thought, emotions spill forth, ones I have kept from even myself. It is moments such as these I have hidden from myself. Stealing my heart from the pain and confusion; hiding it down deep. I have read the Word cover to cover, seeking to know Him more. Yet I find myself on a blank page, quickly filled by a heart yearning to be free. There are times I have felt the sweetness of freedom, yet for some unknown reason, it is I who locks me back in a cage, my prison. I’m surrounded by bars of my making, walls of my building, and keyholes of my locking. I have spent too long in my own imprisonment; I feel as though this is where I belong. My mind, yes, my emotions, long to taste that freedom once again, but I don’t know how to turn the key, break the walls, crush the bars. In my self-made prison, I can see a meadow with a pleasant meandering road. I can sense freedom is waiting just on the other side, I can smell it like a gently blowing breeze. If I stand close enough to the window I can feel the sunlight on my face, yet surrounding me, shadows wait to enfold me. As I sit here I realize I am not alone in my cell. I asked the Lord to come inside long ago, but when I locked myself up, I imprisoned Him also. By imprisoning him, I have stopped Him from having full access to me. The cell I am enclosed within is so very small. Long ago I hid that key that would bring the walls tumbling down. And now I wonder what it will take to shatter this self-built cell for I long to go to that meadow, waiting on the other side. I want to glide down the path with flowers strewn along the side. I want to embrace the sunlight and leave all the shadows behind. I want to be free and allow the Lord to guide this life of mine. I sit here and ponder these truths revealed to me; knowing they have come from something far greater than me. I sit here and I wonder about the day soon to come, when freedom will be mine at last, resting in the Son.

Melissa Fitzwilliam