I’m afraid to share some stories. Like the one about the time when a long-haired, skinny stranger opened the car door, unbuckled his pants, and tried to ruin the innocence of my youth. My big sister saved me. Or when I stole… and I was young… and he said he loved me… I hated the way I looked… I got lost. My little sister was born. My mom was sad. The whole house was dark. Except for the ethereal glow from the pink sheets that hung over the windows in my mom’s room. The sheets blocked out the sunlight, but somehow made the room look like it was on fire.
Shadows from my past and in my future. I’m afraid to share some stories. Like how guilt hangs over me. Did I get married and run away? I didn’t run away… I should call home more. I should call the in-laws more. I should see how my little sister is doing. Am I doing enough? I should make more money to send home. I feel like I’m buying Stan’s birthday gift with his own money. Ha. Happy birthday, babe. Love you forever.
I’m afraid to share some stories. Like how I’m saved and I sin. I’m a believer and I doubt. I’ll say things I don’t mean. What’s worse is that I’ll mean things and can’t say them. I’ve been redeemed by an act of complete grace, but sometimes I don’t know what to do with that.
I’ll lay down the stories I’m afraid to share, over and over again. Lay down my rights, my fears. There is a remnant chosen by grace. I don’t want these remnants of disbelief. I believe in a God who is greater than fear. I believe in his promises, and I believe he’ll see them through till the end.