made for another world

i'm not really sure when i first realized it. 

that shocking truth that was the thing i was missing but knew all along. 

the kind of thing that you feel with your soul but can't name.

the kind that burns inside with an indescribable mix of fire and ice.

maybe it was when i was little, pulling the ripe, indigo blackberries off,

popping them into my mouth and feeling the burst of summer in my mouth.

reaching down to pick another, the sharp sting made me pull back.

mommy, what was that? i asked, raising my finger to my mouth.

that's when i learned about the thorns and thistles and briers.

the things that weave themselves in among the best parts of life, 

and just when i least expect it, they reach up and sting.

or maybe it was when i was older, taking the prettiest walk of my life,

strolling along the cobbled lane lined with trees of fire and their autumnal litterings.

the blue, blue sky and the breeze that carried the faint scent of goldenrod,

making something suddenly come alive in my heart.

then i looked up and saw the last thing i expected- the stark contrast.

the rows of  painted gravestones, just beyond the jet black iron fence.

i stared at the out of place scene- and gulped at that stinging inside.

maybe it wasn't either of those times, or any of the others i could drag out of my memory.

maybe it was just one of those things that creep up on you, and you have a moment of realization

but it was so long in coming that so, so many things contributed to it.

however it dawned on me, i will never forget that truth that once was the explanation of so much,

and now is further ingrained on my soul by the chisels of time and experience.

this place has beauty, life, and even love,
but this can't be, won't be, and is not my home.

i was made for another world.

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they are not of the world, just as I am not of the world (John 17:16) 

but according to His promise we are waiting for new heavens and a new earth in which righteousness dwells (2 Peter 3:13)

i find in myself a desire which no experience in this world can satisfy. the most probable explanation is that i was made for another world. // c.s. lewis

real + alive

Being real is not as easy as it sounds. Not in this world, this day, this age. Not at all.

We've changed our own mindsets to where everything has to be somehow subconsciously worthy of something else that it really wasn't created to be. But yet- for the sake of image- we stuff it in and force it to be that something that doesn't belong to it. It happens with pictures and words and memories and beauty of all kinds. Oh, and it also happens to people and their lives.

Aesthetics and how things appear to everyone else isn't life. What we do and how we do it and who we do it for is life. 

Sure, the aesthetic life is much more appealing. Where everything looks put together and beautiful and enviable. But truth is, nobody has a put together and beautiful and enviable life all the time. Or even most of the time. No matter how much it looks that way. 

The brokenness and heartache and struggles of real life are there for a reason. We humans have thought we knew best for way too long, and look where we are now. But yet, the pain teaches us a lesson.

It whispers that you are still here and that these feelings you have are being sharpened for one day when everything will be felt in perfection without pain. It guides us to do things we wouldn't do otherwise, shouting that one day you may not have the chance to do them again. It might hurt a lot, it might hurt occasionally, but it will hurt. There will be pain. But ultimately, the pain reminds us we can't do it on our own. We weren't made to.

Being real is being vulnerable. 

But being vulnerable in the right place is being free. 

And being free is being alive. 

I don't want to live a fake existence. The One who came so we could have life lived a real, perfect life then died a real, horrible death, then rose to reign again with real, forever love. And He still is. The price He paid was much too high to live under bondage to a made-up existence of our own creation.

I'm not perfect. This post isn't perfect. And I'm going to venture to say that you aren't perfect either. But that's okay. He is perfect. He's also real, and alive. And He frees people. 

Oh, He also binds up wounds and mends shattered hearts and resurrects dead things and fixes broken lives. Meaning, there's nothing He can't renew, in case you were wondering.

Whatever it takes, let's live real. Real is freeing, and to be free is to be alive. <3

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This is what I call prosetry- not a poem, but not exactly pure prose either.... it has the soul of a poem somewhere in there. I debated what form to put this in, but I went with this very imperfect little ramble in hopes it might encourage a little today. xx