if life is like a box of chocolates...

I hate feeling sorry for myself.
That poisonous injection of disappointment and bitterness trying to spread their roots in my thoughts...
divisive to my strength,
my emotions,
my faith.
That peripheral blindness that hones in on
all the things that have a glaring absence in my life,
or fail to fall into place.

I hate feeling shut out.
Always coming up empty.
Overlooked.
Denied.
Frustrated...
like I'm running on a treadmill
never advancing,
falling another step or two behind.

I hate having to stand in the face of all the reasons I should pity myself,
and be left with nothing but the call to trust...
in things I can't see.
Can't feel.
Can't grasp.
I'm not good at it.
I falter.
Find pillows.
Walls start crumbling.
Chocolate starts unwrapping.

And somewhere in that dark moment,
I grasp for that miniscule seed of mustard
that can see through the mountains blocking my physical sight.
I find my knees,
and learn what it means to walk out my faith...
living like I trust the One who knew me before I was even conceived.
Stepping out on the limb knowing He will not give me more than I can handle.
Hoping in the coming dawn of an eternal promise that He will turn all to good...

And I try to crawl out of bed in the morning
not because I feel my purpose
but because I know there is purpose -
even when my vision is clouded,
the horizon is hazy,
my heart is splintering,
as storm clouds brew out the sun.


And although my eyes may be averted by pity,
may they always readjust on the Author,
the Finisher,
the only constant in my chaos.