Writing Jesus

Light
in my room,
life
in my veins,
love
in my headphones–
and You in all these.

"Don't be afraid," You said.
"Just believe." And she stood
up and walked around
exactly as You told them she
would.
I like to think that I'm
that little girl: at the gates
of death, the breath depleted from
my frail body, until You raised
me back up and let me hear
the warmassurance of Your voice–
something as near and as audible as my
own steadily-pattering heart.

When I'm here, lounging in
my bed this way, with the
comforter drawn up to my
stomach and the music
drowning out all other noise
in praises to You, I can
feel You. Really. That's not
just some cheap attempt at
poetry. I know it comes from
You–You are poetry.

Your Word lies open on my
lap, and I promise, Jesus, I'm
going to go right back to it.
But I wanted to write to You
first.

Like the girl with the beautiful
voice croons in my ears: "I'm
desperate for You. I'm lost
without You." Lord, even if
all else failed and the whole
Christian religion were disproven,
I would know You
were real, because You are
love, and love is everywhere.

That's why I don't understand
atheists. How they
can say they don't believe
in the intangibility of a higher power when
they witness something intangibly higher
than themselves every waking
moment of their lives.

But I don't blame them–I
don't hold them accountable
for what they don't know.
They mean well as
much as we do. They simply try to
see from everyone's point of
view and guide people to respect
each other's beliefs, which is
admirable. And yet...they
linger in darkness. They
are depressed, guilty, ashamed...
human examples of what we all
naturally are, without a Savior.

"I'm not a Christian," they
say, "so stop trying to
force your beliefs on me."
Oh, my God, I wish I
could just give them this
gift-wrapped package full of
the beautiful truths of
Your love, and let them see
all that light beaming in
their now-shadowed eyes, all that selfless
love encompassing their now-broken bodies,
and then they would understand.
But it's just not that easy. It
is something they have to
accept for themselves; experience
to understand.
We talk about You constantly for a reason.

They have no idea what they're
missing out on. I cannot
blame them, Jesus–I
can't blame them for what
they don't know. I can only
love them and pull their
cold forms closer,
hoping that You
will open their eyes like You've
opened mine.

I love how they call You the
Savior–because it's
interesting: not only did You
save humanity long ago on the cross,
You've personally saved me. More than
once. There was a point in
my life, a short time ago, when
I had given up on the idea
of You. I stopped
being a Christian, in my
mind–the very thought of
You seemed outrageous.
All I cared about was
losing weight. It consumed
me until nothing else mattered...
not even You.

But that's how I know
You're here now. Because
You saved me. You didn't
give me more than I could
bear, more than I could
bounce back and heal from.
Some girls die like that–
blindly starving for control.
You brought me back; caught
me so I could catch myself.
Of all the names they call
You, I think "Savior" is the
most fitting.

Sitting here, I almost want to cry.
Oh, if only the world could
see–see what I see–what
we see–what You see, God
above all. Know that You're not
just somebody's opinion or
idea or religion, You are life.
For everybody, not just
those who already know You.

Guess all I really wanted to
say is "thank you." You did
step down into darkness
and open my eyes and let
me see. I love You. I adore
You. I worship You.
Thank You my beautiful
Jesus, lover of my soul,
the only One who will never change.