“Why these?” I ask when she puts them in my hand.
“They’re special,” she replies.
“They’re broken,” I say. It comes out more like a question than a statement.
“What makes seashells special then?” she asks me.
And it makes me wonder. What does make a seashell special? Is it the size or shape or color? Or the part that’s missing? Or is it something else altogether?
“You do,” I finally decide. “When you love something, you make it special.”
“Cool,” she says. “I like the broken ones.”
(Paperdoll, pg. 53)
Hello loverlies (:
February has really done it’s best to throw me off guard. Like right off the bat, we got a week plus one day off school for snow. (: woo! Haha. Then I got on blogger and noticed that I hadn’t written anything in three weeks. *gasp* and then I looked at the date, and I remembered that valentines day was right around the corner *faint* haha. So it looks like that I’m going to be at home on a date with my pen and paper on that day. But I have a really special blog coming out of it. (:
So anyways, I was in government on Tuesday and the idea for this blog came to mind. I love it when I get new ideas. First it starts small, maybe with a title, or a phrase, or a sentence. It slowly blooms after that. The words begin to form sentences, and the sentences take root on the paper, spreading across, filling the space. Suddenly, the idea explodes, splattering like beautiful chaos, jumbling at points because my mind is so excited that it begins to run at 500 miles a hour, while my hand is poking along at 10.
So I got this idea. A title simply called scars. At the moment, I couldn’t give it the proper amount of attention because my government teacher was droning on and on about the types of government, blah, blah, blah. But later, when I was on the bus to my stupid business class*, I began to really think about it. There are so many ways to get scars, and so many stories explaining them. There are surgery scars, scars that tell stories of childhood, there are scars made by hate, scars left from loneliness, and then there are the intentional ones.
It is the intentional one I thought about. I’ve written about them so many times before, but this time, it feels different, because this time, it will not be told in the form of a story. I wonder how someone can turn something as dangerous as self injury into an art form. How someone can take something as ugly as scars, and make it appear beautiful on their legs and arms? How can skillfully steady hands create something so out of control? It is an alarming beauty, and a false stillness that pulls the blade along. But honestly, how can the artist’s hand falter when the devil himself is helping the chaos along?
These thoughts force me to think of myself. Scars cover my legs, all made by my own hand. I did not act out to defy my parents, nor did I do it for a show. If that had been the case, I would have chosen my arms, but instead my legs fell victim. It was so easy to hide, they were always covered anyway. The reason I cut was a desperate attempt to gain control in my life, but I couldn’t find the control because I was plugging into the wrong source. I wasn’t letting the Deliverer do His job. I have come to accept my scars. I used to find them ugly, another part of my body that was flawed, and I would get so mad because I knew that I had done it to myself. But now I see them as another way that I am beautifully unique. A physical reminder of the miracle Jesus preformed when He rescued me from myself.
In December I had a relapse. It was a word made up of seventeen cuts. It stands one inch tall, and four inches wide. It reads.. ALONE. It is the one scar that I still feel horrible for making. Because when I wrote it I was not alone. Jesus was right beside me, bleeding over an identical word carved into his leg. And I hate it. It’s big and ugly, and basically a slap in the face to everyone who loves me. I’ve basically just told my family, my “adopted sister” Courtney, my bestie tyler, all my other friends (who I love dearly), my mr. for-the-rest-of-my-life, and God that they weren’t good enough all in one little ten minute breakdown. And I remember that every single day, and I will for the rest of my life.
I then began to think of all the emotional scars that had left their permanent holes in my heart. Scars from when I lost my aunt Pam, and then two more when I lost my cousins Jennifer and Jasie way before their time. I received another one when I found out about my real dad, and how I wish and hope and pray for the day he tells me that he loves me. Several other scars fall beside them. Some are from the hurtful words I was called (for words are like a double edged sword). Others are from fear. Fears that maybe I might just lose someone I love dearly very soon. Like my papaw Jim, who I love extremely. I worry about him all the time. But then something amazing happens. Jesus comes in and fills all the little cracks in my heart; He patches all the little holes, and makes me feel at peace. There is a verse that I love to look at when I feel the pain of an emotional wound coming on.
1 Corinthians 10:13 “There hath no temptation taken you but such as is common to man: but God [is] faithful, who will not suffer you to be tempted above that ye are able; but will with the temptation also make a way to escape, that ye may be able to bear [it].”
I think that verse is so pretty, and I love how God is so merciful to only give us the life that we were able to handle with His help. It’s not always a cake walk. It sometimes is filled with a little pain, but just knowing that He loves me, and that He is always there for me makes me feel better.
When it comes to the end of the day, I am still broken, like the seashells in the quote. Unwanted by most, but adored by a certain few who have an eye for some hidden beauty or talent that I may possibly possess once the sand is washed away. Daily polished by God, and kept in line by His children. He makes me special because He loves me.
I have finally learned the truth, happiness is not something you achieve by age, or knowledge, or beauty. Not by things, or people, or success. The feeling cannot be bought, or sold, or traded. Happiness cannot be measured with a smile or a frown or even with laughter. It is not something that once you get there, you stay forever no matter what. Happiness is not a destination, but a way of travel. Being happy doesn’t mean that life is perfect, merely that you’re not willing to let life get the best of you at the moment. It is something that everyone searches for and chases after, but happiness is kind of like a shadow on a sunny day. The more you chase it, the further it moves away, but if you wait for that moment when the sun is at its peak, and you stand very still, suddenly your shadow will be underneath you. Happiness is sitting in the rain to watch football and having your best friend rub the rain from his jacket on your dry face. Happiness is all the little nights I spend with my lovely sister courtney duncan. Happiness is having friends that turn moments into memories that last forever. Happiness is found in hope, and childhood, and starbucks coffee. In wishing stars, and fairy tales, and dreams, and true love. It is found in the little things that make you smile. Happiness is love, and hope, and peace. Happiness is found in all the silly memories you make with your family. (like sitting in the parking lot of wendy's and laughing so hard that you almost choke on your french fries and pee your pants at the same time because your dad is singing some weird song at the top of his lungs.) (or even those insane road trips to the 127 sale (: where we never seem to buy anything, but we have such a good time together.) Happiness is not the things in your life, but instead the joy from Jesus filling your heart. I can now make the statement that I, Emily Ann, am perfectly, and incandescently and irrevocably filled with Jesus, and therefore, I am happy (:
So my dears I leave you with this thought to ponder upon. (: and wish you the best of luck in standing on your shadow. (;
With all my love,
Emily Ann (:
* The stupid business class is the one Dwight Murphy talked my mom into making me take because "it's a great opportunity" which it would be, if I liked business at all. But I don't. I despise it. If I had a business, I'd burn it to the ground, and smile as I was being locked in the loony bin. haha. (;
