Parched skin thirstily swallows the ink,
letting the black bleed slowly in as my pen traces dear thoughts onto me. From
my heart, jumped to my brain, the thought electrics its way down my arm on the
back of tiny nerves to control the hand that holds the pen. A circuitous route
connecting both body and soul. They meet in the sweetest communion.
The word “trust” etched into me,
cursive and swirly, breathing free and bold, a proclamation of priorities and
faith, alerting all, giving everything, withholding nothing.
The ink traced onto my skin seeps
into the hair-fine cracks that map the surface of my hand, the cartographer
having engraved even the tiniest swirled detail. And it reminds me that without
trust, my fragile soul would painfully shatter.
Like Christmas decorations, those
brightly colored red balls that distort your face when you get up close and
glitter and light up the tree. Clinging onto the branches of the tree, the
ornament dangles precariously, forever on the verge of falling. I’m like that
ornament. Trust in my Savior is the only thing that keeps me clinging, keeps me
from shattering, keeps me from despondency and desperation.
Trust.
It means
giving so much away and not snatching it back out of His hands, determined that
you could do better. It means silent prayers whispered into pillows when tears
water the sheets. It means facing the future without cringing and acknowledging
that He alone will forge the way. It means joy and freedom on your back like
wings that pick you up and take you anywhere, anywhere but here. It means your
Savior.
