Bernal Heights, San Francisco.
I love/hate to read. In other words, I go through phases. I’ll devour six books in a few weeks, then I won’t read anything for days, weeks, even months. Depends on my mood.
Reading drains me and fills me. Starting a new book is like starting a relationship, and I hate that. I hate meeting new people. I automatically hate new people because hating them means I don’t have to get to know them. And that’s just easier. (Is this an introvert problem? Please say yes.)
Finishing a book is like saying goodbye to my new best friend, the one I grew to love once I decided to stop hating him/her. I hate saying goodbye. I avoid it at all costs, and sometimes the cost is complete awkwardness. Oh, you want a hug? How about we just say see you soon and pretend like this isn’t the end? Uh, here we go, cue the awkward hug. I hate goodbyes.
There’s a lot of truth I haven’t shared because I haven’t figured out how to package it. A lot of truth doesn’t fit well into tidy blog posts. It’s too messy for that kind of thing.
Sometimes it’s just easier to leave the loose ends of my life out of the picture, sometimes literally (hello, Instagram) and sometimes by hiding behind the guise of curating my life, behind the lie that half the truth might be more beautiful than all of it.
I think God wants to shine light into the dark corners of our lives, not pretend they’re not there.
I like to imagine God’s light as blinding, enveloping and other-worldly bright. And I believe it is, and will be. But sometimes, on some days, it feels like a little flame flickering under my breath.
I can see it, but barely.
I want to write about that little flame — the everyday, in-the-thick-of-it, not-so-pretty truth of it all — even if it’s flickering. Writing about it is taking in the oxygen to make it stronger and brighter. It’s an act of defiance against the shadows, refusing to hide in the darkness. It’s an invitation for you to sit with me around the glowing and growing fire.
It might seem small now, but it’ll keep us warm.