I sit on my bed, cross-legged, rocking back and forth.
The sleep I couldn't quite obtain taunts me from my pillows, leaving its telling shadows under my eyes.
"He is doing something, He is doing something,"'
I whisper to the ceiling, blinking as a hummingbird bats its wings, as if one tear will melt my entire frame.
Closing my eyes, I imagine deep red, gray, and black smoke, billowing around me, the kind that escalates from a freshly extinguished candle or a Native American's fire.
They surround me now, encircling my position on the bed. I don't move, don't dare to ask them away.
My spirit is still.
Somewhere there's light.
Somewhere, I know this isn't life.
That these colors, although consuming my retinas, are easily turned into pinks and whites.

Instantly, a small, wet tear trickles down my weary, viciously rubbed cheek.

I am learning to let God be my love, not let love be my god.

digest this while I get the words.

In the Garden of Gethsemane, Jesus knew exactly what was coming.
In that moment, He knew that He had a faithful, loving Father, of whom He was fighting for on the earth. He in fact came to Earth, I believe, knowing that He was going to severely suffer, and then in the end, die.
He had encircled Himself with men who wanted to love Him and follow Him and had stood by Him.
But in that moment, I think He felt alone.
His friends were asleep and Satan seemed closer than His Father.
In the midst of His complete knowledge of God's love and provision, He asked for it to all go away. His cup was brimming over with no saucer to catch the overflow.
He knew it was necessary.
That ultimately, it was for the best.
But He was weary and burdened and wanted another way out.

But because of His patient suffering, I have life.

Jesus, please come quickly.

Don't put your trust in walls 'cause walls will only crush you when they fall.

-Ray LaMontagne