It's just me. Again.

I just want to raise my hand and say "Here!" when the Broken Hearts club meets. I just want to say I'm here. What does it mean when no one reaches out? What does it mean when my outstretched hand is picked clean and there is no balm to cover the wounds? I don't want to feed the birds. I want to feed friends. Am I searching for something that doesn't exist? Am I crying about the loss of something that was never meant to be? You can't force the community to include you. Or can you? Is that how people succeed? They claim their place and stand firmly on confident ground? I don't think I have that kind of resolve. The wounded don't typically feel confident about where they stand. I certainly don't feel confident about anything right now. Perhaps this is a season. Endure. Get through. Hope. My club meets every other Tuesday. I'll see you there.

Is it presumptuous to think that if Jesus were here, today, he might eat Lucky Charms and listen to Johnny Cash with you? I'd like to think that God is chill. That He'd give you permission to relax. Most of my upbringing I spent Sunday mornings and Wednesday nights listening to sermons about how we need to DO, GIVE, BE more. How we are called to be warriors. Even now, songs on the Christian charts blare about being courageous, stepping up to be better men. Better women. Yet there are just as many sermons that tell you to LET GO AND LET GOD. As a teenager this call to action was heavy in my heart - DO MORE. BE MORE. GIVE MORE. Even in the simple acts of worship - I wanted to know how high to raise my hands, how low to bend my knee ... how much was I to give? I wanted to see the figures, formulas, and rules. It's easy to follow rules. But letting go? "Letting God"? "Letting Go" is not part of my nature. I spend a lot...