12. 7. ‘20

I talked with the Lord as I walked through the aisles and felt shame. It was as if the shame leaked from me, as the Bible says, as menstrual blood on my skirts . . . my vile soul and vulnerability; the secrets that haunted me day by day. I have been hurt, but more so, I have hurt others. And while licking my introspective and exaggerated wounds, I have scratched and ignored those who need their scars licked most. I remember walking through Target which irked me every day because of its pricing and watching people pass by me. They were in their yoga pants, had blonde hair, were tall and beautiful. And I was in a pair of torn-up jeans with the old plaid jacket Mrs. M. gave me, and my drained pale face, not smooth and tan like theirs, my dry hair up in a messy ragged pony, not in a bun as theirs. I caught my short and stalky self in the mirror, and felt so ashamed.

At home, in the south, I'm embarrassed for having a nice house. It is big and beautiful and more than what most people have. We have loads of stuff. Antiques. Hand me downs. Our own personal stashes of things we have bought that we have yet to give away. So many people don't have as much as we do.. And I have been able to go to school while many of my friends have not. And I am blessed enough to take my home for granted. And everything else in my lifestyle. There I felt poor, and I prayed to Jesus in my embarrassment. Here, I feel rich, and I often forget Him.

Please help me not to forget You anymore, my sweet Jesus. You died for me. Give me joy. And love. And wisdom. And thankfulness. But most important…obedience. Thank You, My Love, for caring for me.