I screamed at my Father today. I feel so guilty. My heart aches and my mind races with what I have done. Oh, I didn't scream at him with my voice by with my impatience. I told Him what I wanted and when I wanted it. And He kindly said, not now. And I had to stop myself from pulling the hair from my scalp. I feel like I've waited for years and years but He said, what's a few more? And I felt like He was being insensitive. I felt like He didn't want to fulfill my needs. As I write this I laugh because my Father, my Maker, knows exactly what I need and when I need it. Yet, I doubted Him. Yet, I doubt Him.
A more fickle or impatient person you'd be hard pressed to find. I rail at my Father telling Him all my demands and wanting them now. This instant. That is all I know. This instant. I want something I go buy it. I need something I go buy it. If I wait in line for more than five minutes I get frustrated. My friends, I need prayer. Pray for me and I'll pray for you.
God is my protecter. He knows all my fears. God is my provider. He knows all my needs. God is my deliverer. He hears all my pleas. God is my friend. He listens to my cries and the water from His eyes fill rivers. He hears my laugh and the Earth shakes with His glee. He sees my brow troubled and He paints the flowers so that I might smile.
I write this and I write what I know. God is love and nothing less.
Even private journals do not reveal on their pages the writer's sinful deeds. Sometimes the conflicts with evil are recorded, but usually only when the right has gained the victory. But they may contain a faithful account of praiseworthy acts and noble endeavors; this, too, when the writer honestly intends to keep a faithful journal of his life. It is next to a human impossibility to lay open our faults for the possible inspection of our friends.
- Ellen G. White, Testimonies Vol. 4
- Ellen G. White, Testimonies Vol. 4
I saw this tree. It was huge. The leaves were all the shades of green you could imagine. The roots could be seen, you know those types of roots that you trip over? Yea, well these were really big. I looked at the tree and I thought of Pocahantas. You know Mother Willow or whatever that tree's name is. This tree reminded me of her. I thought of the tree whispering all the secrets it has seen. And when the branches swayed I felt like it was whispering to me. Freaky. I thought of how majestic trees are. And I thought how this one must be the Queen of trees or at least the great grandmother of the trees. The tree was soothing, it was forboding, it was inviting. I had the strongest urge to climb the limbs of this tree and put my cheek against it's bark. And let it's quiet strength feed me strength.
If I believed in reincarnation I would want to come back as that tree. All the lovers lean on it, all the children climb it, and all the birds build their nests in it. This tree has seen my grandparents grow old, this tree has inspired poems, this tree has seen beauty. This tree is beauty. It has seen terrible things yet it stands tall. It has gone through terrible winters, and horrible storms; yet it stands firm. A more courageous tree I have yet to see.
I thought about the hands that formed this giant and I wondered how big they were. I imagined Gods hands separating each branch from the other and curving and twisting them as if they were wires. I imagined Him thinking of leaves and then having them appear in His enormous hands and His breath, the breath of life, blew them onto the empty branches. And I saw the leaves gently falling and filling the branches and when they met, the leaves rustled and sighed as if they were happy to be home.
This tree made me think of God. How God stands firm through time. How He has seen horrible things and yet He is unmoving. The promises He spoke thousands of years ago can still be claimed today. I took comfort in the solace that the tree offered. I took comfort in my God.
It has been three days since I murdered the Man. The sun has beaten my face with its outstreached arms. The rocks that I walk upon claw at my feet to the point were they are bloodied. My lips are parched, they are cracked and feel like the sand paper father would use to smooth the tables he carved. I wish I was dead. Ever since I hammered His hand to that tree I have wished myself dead over and over.
As I was walking on the fourth day I saw a girl. She appeared to be my age, she looked worn. She looked as if she to wanted to die. We came upon eachother. It had been so long since I last used my voice my words came out gruff and low. I asked her where she was going. And she shrugged. I asked her if she was by herself. She nodded. I asked her why she was walking all by herself and she turned away from me. I called to her to wait. I was so thirsty it felt like bees were stinging my throat. She turned around. Can I tell you why I am walking? I asked her. I had to tell someone what I had done. Maybe saying it outloud would somehow make a little of the pain leave my mind. I told her. But I didn't look at her as I said it. I told her I murdered an innocent man. She told me to look at her. I did. She lifted her hands and they were as crimson as mine. I cried. I was disgusted with myself. I felt relief that she had done the same thing as me. Relief! How can I feel relief? She cried as well. We didn't hug each other but we walked together. Not talking just silently weeping.
It seems that misery does love company.