Beautiful Things: Finding Hope Within Your Struggles
“Remember not the former things, nor consider the things of old. Behold, I am doing a new thing; now it springs forth, do you not perceive it? I will make a way in the wilderness, and rivers in the desert.”
There once was a girl whose first heartbreak was over a drug. A girl whose first battle was between a mother’s love and a needle. A needle that never touched her own skin, a love that never clothed her own heart. Her first shiver was the withdrawal of her mother’s touch. The withdrawal of a soft kiss that never comforted her soundless cries. Her very first friends were abandonment and emptiness. Her closest family members were hatred and anger. She didn’t know joy; she didn’t know laughter. She had no reasons to smile, not even a single reason to live.
She was raised by her grandmother who was an alcoholic. A grandmother whose pain was so great, it poured out of her. Her love seemed so small, that you’d think she didn’t have any at all. Her grandmother’s best friends were rum and coke, and together, they spent two, three cups a day, probably even more. In the house where they lived, you could hear yelling and cussing. You could see holes accompanying walls where objects missed faces and arms.There was a specific shelf that held the memory of where a girl almost lost her life. This house didn’t know anything other than pillow cases soaked with tears. There was pain on both sides and neither knew the why behind the cries.
But there was a love that shined brightest in the darkness. She didn’t know it, nor could she see it but it was there. Calling her name, wiping her tears, loving her heart. A voice, she didn’t know could be so gentle. A voice, she didn’t know could be so ....
I love you, even if they don’t.
I’m here, even if they’re not.
She didn’t know anything about a person called God and if there was one, she didn’t want anything to do with Him. He’s the reason why her life is in pieces and if He’s as “good” as they say He is, then why is her life so messed up? Her mother’s a drug addict, her father’s a drug dealer. Her grandmother’s an alcoholic and her grandfather’s a womanizer. Three generations that are anything but good. But the God she didn’t believe in, chased her down and loved her still. He bent down and covered her; clothed her where she was naked. He lifted her head and nailed her pain to a cross that she didn’t have to carry.
He gave her wholeness where there was brokenness. He exchanged her tears for a smile that’s wider than her pain. He gave her vision for a life she didn’t think was worth living and He gave her the courage to write about it.
That girl is me.
I know there may be some details missing here and if I am honest, I struggled a lot with writing this. I found myself between, “I got through this” and “God did this”. I don’t share my story often because I’m always afraid of my pride seeping through. I’m always afraid of sharing my story because who am I that I should be important enough to be heard?
Even this week, as I went back and forth with God on writing this, I had every reason not to. My tendinitis in my right hand flared up bad enough that it started to affect my writing, but even in that, God met me. The details from the A’s to B’s and in-betweens probably shouldn’t be as important to me but they are. They matter to me. All I know is that, “Once I was lost but now, I am found.” All I know is that once, “I was bound but now, I am free”. I used to wander the streets at ten and eleven years old because I felt safer outside than I did in my own home, but in Him, I’m safer than I’ll ever be.
He gave me the greatest friends that love me like my family. Brothers and sisters that look out for me without ever having to say a word. He’s given me a mom that’s loved me sacrificially and fought for me when I couldn’t fight for myself. She may not be from my direct bloodline, but she is my blood - by grace.
He’s given me a heart that loves harder than it probably should and a compassion that’s deeper than I think it is. He’s restored all that was stolen from me and the blessings keep coming. The scars that cover my heart are scars that I’ll never forget. Scars that remind me that I’m not who I was nor am I who I was told I was. They are reminders that though I was once told I’d never be somebody to someone, I am. They remind me that even though I was told I’d never be loved, I am.
My name means, “beautiful blossom”, which reminds me that flowers may be trampled on and broken from their stems, but they still bloom in the spring. Flowers may be rained on and their pedals may wither, but they still bloom with all their beauty. Through all the cruelty of this world, they still display their colors with boldness. In all the harshness of life, they still bloom and invite you in to all their vulnerability. They give of themselves, so that life can continue elsewhere. I give my life to a God that I once hated because I know that I wouldn’t be here right now writing this if He hadn’t come after me. I share my life, so that life can continue with you. I’m not perfect, but I’m imperfectly His and there’s no other place I’d rather be.