Death Song

  When I die.
  Morbid.
  But face it. Bound to happen.
  So. When I die.
  I want to be buried in the clothes of my youth. Because in my head, I will never be old. Like Peter Pan I will look in the mirror and still be a child. I will embrace my immaturity, my vivaciousness, my youth and longing for life. I will not let age take over my soul. Though it may overtake my face.
  For I want my face to be wrinkled and old. But still beautiful. Graceful. I will accept and embrace all of the experiences that have added age to my countenance. Each laugh line a story. Each wrinkle a tale. My face a novel, filled with chapters. My face a book of my life; a mask in the play on the stage that all men appear upon.
  I want to be able to say, with my last breath, that I had no regrets. I lived life to the fullest. I made mistakes, but I learned from them. I let them teach me, not tell me Who I was to become. I made promises. I made love. I cried from heart-break. I laughed from relief. And I enjoyed every minute. Every minute was mine.
  At the end. The very last gasp-for-sweet-air end. I want it to be said that I loved. I loved to my fullest being. And I gave my all, for Christ, for others, for those I couldn't do without, and for those that I could.
  I want my death to be a song. A melody carried over by those who loved me. A chant, a hymn, a drum solo, a lonely flute, a ukulele, a drumming of the fingers. All of the songs symbolizing those who loved me, and those I loved. And the song will raise up in the air, and drift away on the clouds, and the notes will lazily scatter. They will be forgotten. I will be forgotten. But just for that instant, I want to be remembered, and for people to say of me, "She gave everything she had."

Bare Your Soul

  The quest to find ourself is a journey every person makes. 

  Sometimes, the journey ends quickly -- the person does not wish to continue. They have found what they wanted and are content. Leave it alone, their stubborn mouths cry. They are too scared of what lies behind their soul. Too scared to investigate and dust off those corners of musty-attic heart. The place where no one goes, not even them. 

  And some people keep going. They carefully peel off the paper-thin wrappings that protect their fragile heart, uncover, dig out their soul and examine it. Scrutinize it meticulously, like a medical student uses tweezers to scrutinize a cadaver. Sometimes they are satisfied with what lies beneath. 

  But sometimes they are not. They keep searching. Their soul is too dirty, too small, too bare. They are not content. 

  Why are they not content? Because, on the way to find themselves, they've forgotten something. Something important. 

  They are not content because they have been relying on other people's opinions. Offering their soul to those they respect, admire, wish to please... only to have their fragile-christmas-ornament soul dashed to the ground in contempt, the pieces flying everywhere, scattered over the cobblestones, as they try to gather them back, stick them together, staunch the flow of disappointment that leaks down in salt-water trails on their face. 

  It's so easy to forget that other's opinions do not form you. They do not create who you are or what you will become. So stop trying to find yourself in others. 

  Instead, lose yourself in Jesus. 

  Because He's the only one that will take your broken soul and find value in it. He'll set the shattered soul ornament on his mantle-piece and proudly display it. Find comfort in Him. For in Him, you will discover who you truly are, who you were meant to be, and who He is to you. 

  He is your master, your love, your father, your king. 

  And I am simply His Ordinary Princess. My soul is freed from the bondage of other's opinions, whispers, rumors, stares, and snickers. I find myself in Him. 

   That is enough, but it is more than I could ever wish for. 

Book Marked

  I told him I wouldn't forget. There's many a memory lost upon the stormy waves of thoughts and emotions that swirl relentlessly around in my head. But he wouldn't be among those counted missing.
  I told him I would book-mark him. Set a page aside for him in the novel that's constantly being written in my mind. And even if we go our separate ways, life takes a turn, things don't work, we never speak again...I'll still have him book-marked. And even if it gets carried away on the wind, I'll still whisper "Thanks for the memories."
  Because he's one of the few that understands.
  So many see the surface: the nicely polished marble, slightly cracked, a few imperfections, but I mean no one's perfect. And they're content with that view. The outside will do just fine, thank you, nothing else to it and even if there is we can't be taking the time to find out.
  There's so much more. The Ordinary Princess wants to scream it at them. Beg them. Shove it in their content and lethargic faces.
  But at the same time...
  She lets them find it out for themselves. That's her test.
  That's how she knows they're important, worth it, a fellow soul working towards a similar goal. That's who she gives slivers of her heart to. That's how she knows they deserve to be book-marked.
  If they dig deeper. Find the little heart made of gold hidden a few feet within the marble. That's when she chips a piece off her tiny, still-beating, golden heart...
  And gives it away.