Don’t look at me. Or if you do, don’t see me. Let me rise, invisible before your eyes. Let me be just vapor, just wind. Let me be but a breath of silence. A whisper. Insignificant.

When you look at me, see Him.

 When the work of my hands is kindness, it is His work. When the soul I carry meets with yours, overlaps and comforts you, let it be His soul. When you look at my life, see Him. See Him in my eyes, in my words, and in my works.

If my words please you, they are His.

If they give comfort or joy, if they make you laugh, if they humble you or move you to tears, it is Him. It is always Him.

For I live for Him. I am His, to do with. He has pulled me from the fire I set, given me a place on this earth when I didn’t know if I ever would have one again. He has set me in my world to do His work with love and with care. He has sent me to be yours, to be your ear and your help and your love.

He has healed me.

The wounds that were created by other’s hands have been knit under His hands, and the bones broken set right. All the destroyed cities in my mind have been raised back up to beauty. The words that broke me have no power anymore. They are whispers against the symphony of His love.

So hear me now, friend. I feel your wounds. I know the pain that has driven you. I know the heartwrenching sadness and loneliness. I know. I have lived in it like a sea, cold and murky around me. I have lived in it like a fire, burned and betrayed. I have been left. I have been abandoned. I have been lost and forgotten.

But He is. And because He is, I am here.

His dwelling was not born into me, bred into me, beat into me. It was a journey, begun in halting steps. It was a dance, back and forth and back again. It was a leap out onto faith that hurt. It hurt to trust. It hurt to give my heart to something I couldn’t see.

But on a cold morning with winter sun beating onto my back, it was created. I sat under the statue of Saint Mary and cried. My body ached from blows. Blood was dried on my arms, my face. My tears were warm and then cold. They fell onto my folded hands. They fell to the marble floor. My face turned up as my heart broke. I had no words for what I needed. I simply needed to not be alone anymore.

And then…

He was. He was there.

 He came to me in warmth and scent and comfort. My bruises and blood faded. I felt Him. I felt His arms. I heard His words soft against my ear. I heard His promises. It was not that Iwould never hurt again. It was that in all of it, I would never walk alone again.

I have run from Him. I have walked away. I have been angry, have raged. I have shouted. I have sat in silence and ignored His voice.

And always, He has been.

So look at me. Read my words. But don’t see me.

See Him.

By Bella, It Coulda Been Worse

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