Shattered

 I’m getting back to myself, but I must be honest. The physical scar at my abdomen, it hurts to look at, which is strange. That scar enhances my quality of life. No life of wheelchairs and painful contractures. I told the doctor I’ve had this pump almost twenty years. I don’t want to imagine life without it. Who knows if I’d have the strength to blog, to travel, to live a life most like me can only fantasize about. It’s not lost on me. I’m also reminded that physical scars are the evidence of their existence. The ones mentally only I know are there. The physical reminder is one that now fuels my desire to address with truth what holds me back. I will get there. I remember anything worthwhile takes time. My mental health is worthwhile something I didn’t believe. I thought as long my body could be dealt with my mental state would magically heal. Pure folly. I now know better.  I’m good at hiding. Gold medal performances that led to torture. I’m listening to this song now about control. I happen upon its arrival every day. God shows up even when I don’t seek Him outwardly. I hear the song, and His appearance is near. He knows I need Him.  I’m so tired of being dependent, but God says you are.  It’s not something to shrink from. It’s not a bad thing. It’s raw and true. The perfect combination that makes a great follower of mine. Accept the gift. The surgeon split you wide open and put you back together again. I’m about to do that to your broken soul. I do my best work with shattered shards.