I didn't quite know which blog to post this on...

Do you like potatoes? I do. Especially ones cubed and then smashed on my plate with a whole lot of butter on them :) Have you pealed a lot of potatoes? I have. Have you ever come across one that has a whole lot of bruises on it? But your mom (or you) insists on using every good part and so you end up meticulously cutting out each bruise?

I feel like I'm doing that right now. I feel like I have to do that. And I don't know, honestly, if I have to or not.

I will warn you now that I'm going to be a bit vague from here on out because I just need to write down my thoughts with the chance that maybe someone will read it, even if they don't that's the not point. It's just the chance that someone could read it. And let's face it, you're probably smart enough to see through my ambiguity anyhow.

I feel like I'm meticulously (yet not exactly obsessively) cutting little parts of my heart out;
a memory here and there...and here and here and here, too. There goes a little section for seeing reality. There goes a section for another memory. There's a piece for a day dream. Another one for mentioning a name. And here for driving past a street. A building. Hearing a song. Smelling a smell. Again for recognizing reality. Another piece for shame, one for hurt, for betrayal, several for little sadnesses...( <-- not a real word, btw)

I wonder. I ponder. Sometimes I ask. Other times I ignore. I embrace, I shove away.


And yet mercifully, despite everything Heavenly Father still lets me know on a daily basis that it will all fade. In fact I was promised that the past will not matter and it will fade like a dream.

I look forward to that day while at the same time doing my best to make today count. Despite everything. There will still be times when that paragraph above may happen again but I know I won't look back on right now with regret. I'm still living with no regrets.

I'll look back on right now, or maybe I won't, either way I'm content again, after writing this, with my situation. I am where God has led me. And how can anyplace (even a miserable jail named Liberty) where God is be ugly? Where God is, it is beautiful. A jail can become a temple, a place of revelation.

And a life that has scars can become a smooth plain where God dwells. He loves being with us. He loves making our lives, earth-stained as they are, become as clean and fresh as the whitest, cleanest linen.