Heart
by S. Abigail Gria
“Where are you? Where did you go?” I whisper to you, my heart, desperately searching the dark corners of my inner self. I look, opening cupboards, peering around doors, scanning every dark, unswept corner.
Nowhere.
I frantically search. You must be – must be somewhere. I pause, straining my ears to hear a sound, any sound, the sound of a distant beat, anything…
My ‘house’ is silent… Still.
Light barely appears in the gloom. In the dusty dark there is no clue.
Then I find you. Quivering, huddled, shrunk in a corner. You’re beating still but hidden, bruised, scarred. Wounds cover you. Yet you are still beating. Alive.
I reach out to you.
“STAY AWAY,” you scream. The intensity is shocking in the stillness. A raw, piercing cry that resounds through all of me. I reach again. This time it’s worse. There is no scream, there is – nothing…
No response. It is as if you’ve disappeared, gone inward, hidden further. I see you. I see your scars, your bruises, your hurts, but I can’t get to you.
At least I’ve found you. At least you’re here, in my hands, found – safe. I try to tell you that you’re safe but – nothing. I know you haven’t heard me. Haven’t believed what I’ve said.
I look at you, my heart. My tender, beating heart. What happened? Where did you go? I remember when we were one. Happy. Together. You trusted me (and I you) – journeying through the world.
And now? I have a hollow place where you were – a grey space, chiselled out, ready, waiting. Multicoloured facets surround where you used to nestle, beautiful, glistening, but faded. Empty.
*********
He holds my heart. Buried, hidden, in its shell. He holds it.
I do not realise. For in the cold, grey, dullness of life I’ve turned my eyes inward to myself, examining the wounds, nursing the hurts, dabbing the cuts to stem the bleeding. But forgetting – that the one who gives me life, who causes my heart to beat – holds me still.
I start to become aware that He holds me. His tender hand cushions me. It’s warm in His hands. Safe. There is no fear in Him.
Slowly, she – my heart – nestles. She breathes a deep sigh and nestles. She sits back in His hand, enjoying the warmth, peering at His fingers, as a little child might – safe, secure, curious.
Slowly now. He starts to mend me. Turning this way and that, removing the ineffective sticking plaster that I had applied to rejection, the jagged stitches that I used to cover fear. Disappointment is harder – buried deep throughout my heart, like a web spun through, reaching, expanding into every corner.
But that’s no match for my Father. Slowly, patiently, with utter determination, He pulls the web and draws its every last piece from my heart. As He takes it out, disappointment shrieks – desperately trying to get back into my heart, a horrible, grey, shrieking mess that writhes and screams to return.
He simply drops its writhing mess into the bin. “That’s not for you, My child.”
Firmly now, He turns me. Turns my heart. Picking off every last sticker of self-defence, every half-shaped bandage, every clumsy attempt to create my own peace.
“There,” He breathes. I look down at myself. I am amazed! I have a bright, sparkly heart that beats! She is tender and alive and new! I marvel. “Wow, is this really me?”
His smile reaches His eyes in delight. I stare into His eyes, into His gaze, captivated by His love. I am… me!! His!! My beautiful heart lies in His hands, ready, waiting, whole.
She waits now. Expectant. Ready to be planted. “Where do you want me Lord?” He smiles at my eagerness and continues to be still. I settle back and rest again.
As I beat, I look anew. I notice how firm His hand is, how warm, how connected I am to His heart. I notice the blood vessels in His hands and I realise, with a shock, that I am connected to them. His very life beats in me.
This is almost painful to realise. Because I know that this cost Him. I am awed and challenged by His tenderness. He shares His life with me. I am not my own.
I notice how tenderly He holds me. I am part of His life, His precious life. I am part. Not separate. His.
I hardly realise but cries shudder up deep inside of me. Pain, anguish, despair, hurt all start to come out in sobs – wracking sobs that shake all of me, my heart. He knows already – He is in no rush. He simply holds me, giving me His life, allowing me to breathe and release and stay connected.
I am mourning for lost dreams, splintered hopes. I am sorrowing over what was, what could have been. The pieces of a jigsaw – that I so wanted to put together and hold in place – are scattered. Bent pieces, missing pieces, damaged pieces, ugly pieces. Pieces that have been shattered by anger and rage. Pieces that have been buried through fear and resentment. Pieces of tender hearts that have not known nurture but pain. Some pieces are yet intact – bigger pieces that have changed and grown over the years, that have been healed. But others are fragmented, buried, hidden.
I mourn over this jigsaw. I thought I could fix you. I thought I could do this.
You tug back at my gaze. I look to You again. Your eyes stare intently at mine. And then I realise. I wanted to pour my life into this messy jigsaw, to make it all better so that I would be safe. But I had forgotten that I wasn’t You. I couldn’t heal this myself. I had turned my eyes to myself and not to You.
The messy jigsaw lies on the floor now. He holds me close to His chest, above the jigsaw. I peer over. I gasp as I see His hand working in the jigsaw too. Just as He works in me. He is mending and healing and repairing. Patiently, slowly, bringing each precious piece back. He is quietly, determinedly working.
BANG.
Fear bolts across. Scuttling over the jigsaw, trying to disrupt the newly-mended right-hand corner. He catches it firmly by its thick, pulsating leg and lifts it off. It melts away in His hand. Vanishes to nothing. No more. He carries on. I notice other fears, running across – there is so much fear in this jigsaw. Small ones that try to bury underneath pieces. Large ones that determinedly sit across sections. Hidden ones that shriek as He turns pieces over.
But none will escape Him. Each time, He finds them, He lifts them and they vanish. He is mending the jigsaw, bit by bit.
A gentle hum warms the air. He is singing! Singing over me, singing over the jigsaw as He mends, heals and brings us back to life. I settle back, look around, contented. Because even though so many pieces are still scattered, even though there are so many dark places ahead, He holds it all.
He holds me.
Trip Up
by Beatrice Cartiel
Trip up, fall down, face to the ground
What do you see?
Dirt around.
Move a hand, grab the grit
Ask yourself “IS THIS IT?”
Screw your eyes, tightly shut,
Move a foot to stand up.
Why?…….
What’s left?…….
……..
Open eyes, you’re still there,
Move on? Could do, but to – where?
Want to – can’t though, yes and no.
Thoughts go backwards to and fro,
Front-wards sideways up and down
Press your forehead to a frown.
Faster faster thoughts go round,
Fasterfaster thoughts go round
Fasterfasterthoughtsgoround
Fasterfa!
–
–
–
–
–
–
Tripped up, fell down, still on the ground
What do you see?
Open your eyes.
O P E N Y O U R E Y E S.
Look up.
Blurred image.
Rub your eyes, shake your head.
Look up – not in.
Look up!
.
.
.
Look up.
TURN AND TRUST 