what i wish. num 5.

Welcome to "What I wish I could tell you"...an anonymous platform for bloggers to share what they don't feel free to share on their own blogs.  If you have a story/thought/ache/hurt/feeling/secret/prayer request you want to get out, feel free to email me at ricracandpompoms @ gmail.com.  You will remain anonymous to all but me unless you choose otherwise. 
The author of this entry has chosen to stay anonymous.  Say hello to anon #5: 

 The Truth About Singleness: A Letter to God from a Longing Heart

Dear Love,
I'm figuring it out.  And by it, I mean the dusty island that is my heart.  A girl doesn't need to be taught how to recognize when a boy likes her.  It's like there's an embedded honing device that measures the longer-than-necessary glances and million dollar smiles that are code for "you are the gravity that keeps me spinning."  These automatic signals are picked up starting somewhere around the age when everything about a girl's physical self changes, and they are sent straight to her heart...where they are forever banked.  And if a girl keeps her bank at least partially filled, her feminine heart and hope for a heart-rescuer remain intact.  If, however, she ever finds her heart parched and her bank dehydrated, her "hope ticker" falls: Down, down, down. 

I can't pretend forever that I am missing the honing device or the bank.  I'm a girl.  I also can't pretend that I am living in an ocean when my bank dried up a long time ago.  At least, I can't pretend with you.  Love, I have to tell you a secret.  A long time ago, when I realized the throat of my heart was getting a little croaky with thirst, I shut down my hope bank.  Yep, that's right.  Just stuck some dynamite in the middle of the dry, cracked bank and watched it go up in smoke.  It seemed safer, easier that way.  Better to not sit in the dusty cave, waiting for a signal to be found while my heart shriveled some more.  So I gave up.  My hope bank closed.  And I pulled on my boots and straightened my vest, determined to look the part of the proper banker.  After all, who needs the building?  Who needs?  I certainly don't.  Desires are the for the weak.  No man needed here.

Love, I gave up on being chosen, being loved {in only the way a man can love a woman} a long time ago.  And I'll have you know I lit the bank on fire myself.  Granted, it was dry and went up like a twig in a forest fire, but I lit it.  You see, I have another secret.  I'm not who I want to give.

I guess I've just always dreamed of making a man smile to his toes.  I don't want my hero-man to just be content.  I want to be his Jesus-pointer, his partner for life, the beautiful girl on the cover of Brides magazine.  There's only one problem: I'm not her.  I'm ME.  I'm complicated, emotional, less-than-gorgeous, and full of big dreams that no one, sometimes not even myself, want to carry or realize.  I'm like the booby prize from the county fair.  I buried my hopes because it's just safer.  If I can't give away the ten day cruise to the Bahamas, I'm not gonna be giving away the half-alive goldfish, either.  Not that anyone has been longing for the booby prize of ME, anyway.

Love, I've always dreamed of the very thing every girl dreams of: A man to love her and pursue her, a man to be the closest picture of Jesus she will ever hold, this side of heaven.  Several heart-years ago, I noticed my prospects were non-existent, so I took myself off the market.  I built walls around myself, pretending it didn't matter.  "I'm strong!" I proclaimed.  "I'm a fortress!  I don't need a man!  Heck, I don't even want a man!  They have cooties, right?"  Love, I've come to peace with the idea of you and I.  Just me and Jesus, carrying His dreams in me.  To Timbuktu with desire!

You just helped me realize something, though.  Maybe I'm limiting you.  Me, with all my crazy dreams.  Because all I see when I look at ME is a giant fortress protecting a pile of rubble.  Maybe you intend to tear the walls down so that the world can see what is blooming out of the ashes: A new hope only you could create.  A new hope in God-given desire.  Because maybe I am holding back someone's down-to-the-toes smiles.  Maybe steady and gorgeous is not every man's dream.  Maybe there is a man outside the fortress, waiting to be let in.

So, Love, here's my fearful plea, a sacrifice of the very guts of my soul: Heal my heart.  If you want them, I'm giving you my bricks and mortar, my wall-building tools so that you can do something I've never dared try: Expose ME.  Fair warning, though...the bricks are many, and they protect little but a pile of ashes.  Can you make something grow where my hope bank once stood?  If not, I'm content with just you, my Everything.


Want a turn to share?  Email me at ricracandpompoms @ gmail.com. 
Feel free to comment and encourage or just relate and assure.

Popular Posts