Dead lives.

I wait in longing for life to start. As if all time stands on the edge of a cliff, waiting to jump-- to fly. But somewhere, I lost life in the continual passing of seconds and minutes, days and weeks, months and years. A part of me felt incomplete. As if I had forgotten an essential organ somewhere, or perhaps, not forgotten. Rather, I never had it to start with. And then, for a season, this undefinable space was filled. Unfortunatly, in the process of filling of that part of myself, I lost everything else. Why I needed that part of me so terribly, to the point of sacrificing every other part of me, I do not know.
Then, the season ended, and once again I was alone. The hole inside me had become an open grave, just waiting to swallow me up. I tip toed my way around that grave for years. Sometimes I was ready to fall right in, but something held me back. (Thanks Lord).



But God does more than keep us from dying... he keeps us from living dead lives.



Living here, and living one, has made me an expert on dead lives. Every person I pass could easily be thrown into the box labelled "walking dead". Don't think of this as a judgement. I don't intend it to be at all, what I am saying is this: the lives that these people live contain no life. Part of me wants to join them in their pointless existance, but only when all things seem helpless. And in such times, I am still reminded, that though things SEEM helpless, they most definatly are not.
What I am trying to say is this: I am guilty of living a dead life. A friend presented this quote to me, "Is the life you are living worth Jesus dying for?" I would argue, that at this point... no. I'll let you know when that gets fixed.