I could hear this morning's sky coming down before I even threw the sheets back. Slipping quietly into joggers and out the door, leaving family sleeping I was greeted by the canopy above angry in swirls of black and grey, broad streaks of temper stretched across the palette, matching my mood. It was stale, not moving. A movie on pause at the dark part. Rumblings and flashing bursting out and retreating. Rimmed on the east side by a red sore. Sun rising on the wrath sky like Jesus exposing the unforgiveness stored in this angry heart.
I've got to be honest. Too much hiding behind the proper English upper lip and 'fine thank you, how are you.' Not always fine actually. Too much stuffed and not worked out. Not sure how to in the middle of attempts at perfection and appearances and that vain seeking to fill the bottomless chalice of approval. Drink it down and the thirst remains, dry, edgy and insecure. Too personal yes. But write it out and maybe the honesty will ease the need. Maybe there's a place of peace where the hunger's filled and the pastures stretch green forever. Maybe even as I write there'll come a place where it won't matter if anyone likes these words or not, because I'll just be content to let them loose on the page slipping out of me into the blue of His will and where He'll send them, if anywhere and if He likes them that's all that really matters anyway.
Sometimes honesty's too naked, but I think it may be where the healing begins.