Truth speaking folks.
Always my favorite to be around for a while at a time.
People different from my own flaws that see things from behind different colored glasses.
The people who encourage me the most are those who lean hard over coffee and feel safe enough to ask, to wonder with me and to tell me the truth.
Jesus was a truth speaker.
I happen to believe that when scripture tells us that He went about doing good... well I believe that a lot of that was speaking truth as much as healing infirmities.
Infirmities of the mind can be the worst of all.
Lies that creep in, that deform how we view others, life, God.
A twist on God’s design that satan capitalizes on and feeds like it is his prize begonia in this vast garden of humankind.
And we as women folk run silent while doing the dishes and folding clothes and drilling spelling words, just adding the mind to the list of things to organize for that day and if we don’t get to it that day we just let it spill over into the next and the next.
And we feel such a bother to spill our hurts and thoughts and questions to those around us.
Do they really care that we lost half a night’s sleep thinking we had cancer somewhere?
Sometimes it is just easier for us to let the cancer of the mind do it’s dirty work and suffer alone with worry, fear or doubt.
Doubt, that cancer of the soul that forgets so easily words that give life again.
And today before the lunch spread of homemade chicken salad and meatloaf sandwiches made their grand appearance it just slipped out, between friends and I half wondered if I should excuse myself or allow myself to bear what I had been keeping for too long.
And as always, ALWAYS with God’s love alive and shining through flesh and blood, it was grace that covered my questions, and each thought was carefully studied and weighed.
Weighed and tried with years of experience that just soothed me like only grace and the merciful can.
And I felt a tear but did my dead level best to shy it away. It was a tear of relief.
Of relief that it was okay to have questions and feel horrible about some things and get them sorted out like you would recyclables.
Keep some, sort some, and throw some in the rubbish.
Each of us are marked, shaped by those who have poured into us.
Some, have poured truth.
Some, have not.
Some have left grace on the shelf and led you to believe that all roads are rough, and you must press through any obstacle, people included.
And in my 35 almost 36 years young I am constantly weeding my thought life.
Weeding and enjoying those gracious enough to hear me out, thoughts and feelings and wonderings all alike and help me see things from someone else’s shoes.
It is no fault of someone to have a bent.
Bents are life. They are the result of the pouring of others.
And how are you to know any different until a sweet someone lets you unwind a bit?
No pushing, no arguing.
Just quiet sifting, learning,
To balance out a bit.
Thank you special someone.