Oct 172016
 

I stared into my own eyes in the mirror expecting to see something, instead all I found was an evasive nothingness that was unsettling. I study a little harder before having to look away, my heart beating faster than it had been and me feeling perplexed by not being able to look into my own eyes.

What is it that hides so deep within that I can’t hold my own gaze?


I can study others easily, through their words, their fake smiles and their real ones too, and yet when it comes to studying myself I am completely lost, like a half printed textbook with no answer key.

I study the Bible and wonder why it doesn’t sink in the way it does for some, and I realize it’s because I am so vastly unique, we all are, which means that we each learn what is relevant to our lives, and the seasons we have walked through.


I watch the ripples in the puddle on a not so windy day and wonder when my own skin will age and wrinkle up under life’s pressures just the same.

A quick glance into my eyes speaks the volumes of pain in my soul. Images that one day I will be able to look into without having to turn away.

A compilation of 150 blog posts from the Five Minute Friday Community. The stories found in these pages span a diverse range of experiences, but share a common thread: A Love For the Bravely Written Word.
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Oct 152016
 

I woke up today to the family wondering where the entire case of Gatorade had gone. It was almost comical listening to them feel insane swearing up and down that it was on the floor in the dining room the day before, especially since it had been.

But the floors needed mopped and I cleaned out a cupboard and found space and was able to unpack the case and recycle the box and put the Gatorade away and apparently when you tell the child who actually needs the Gatorade where it is and don’t tell anyone else it causes an early morning ruckus as they try to get ready for a hockey game.

They found it, you know, once they actually stopped looking on the floor!


It’s amazing how a small move can really cause such an issue for someone when they are used to things being in a certain place, a certain way. And yet for us Christians many of us spend our lives searching for God and in reality He isn’t hidden in a cupboard, a church, behind a door, or inside of a book. Yes, He certainly is in all of these places but the one place that needs to be searched and tends to be overlooked is within our own hearts, our own souls.

He created our soul in the very beginning. He created it all, and all of us, right then and there in those first days as the universe took shape and for whatever reason we expect God to be like the Gatorade or the lost keys or the dollar you thought you had in your wallet and can’t find, but that’s not the case. He is unmoving, unwavering, living within those of us who choose to live.

When we accepted Him into our hearts as Lord and Saviour of our lives it wasn’t until He moves on to someone else, to another place. This isn’t a game of hide and seek. He is there, forever and always. We can send Him an eviction notice but He will wait us out and He won’t move.

A compilation of 150 blog posts from the Five Minute Friday Community. The stories found in these pages span a diverse range of experiences, but share a common thread: A Love For the Bravely Written Word.
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Oct 072016
 

My faith has been through the wringer lately, and I may have been failing the test, letting myself fall, letting the world step in the way, letting myself give in to things I know not to do. And yet, here I am writing as part of this crazy group and I feel the cradle around me, knowing that like the prodigal son, I am always welcomed back, a feast is prepared and my presence is worth a celebration to the One true Father -our Father, yours and mine!

How wonderful to be His. To come back from the darkness and see His Light brightly shining at the end of what seemed like driving a tunnel in a car that has broken headlights. Yet, I know it is easy for me to break, shatter into a billion pieces and watch the scars scab over but never really go away.

You can glue the mirror back together again, but it never reflects the same. It’s always more fragile than it was before and the tiny shards that we couldn’t pick up and see leave scarred cracks where the glue resides, a wholeness that isn’t really complete and as best as I try to be whole I have to accept that I am only as whole as I am in Christ and that while my tests may be failed, and I may fail this journey called life, I will one day be wholly whole, in His divine presence as I am greeted at the pearly gates and welcomed into the Heavenly realm.

A compilation of 150 blog posts from the Five Minute Friday Community. The stories found in these pages span a diverse range of experiences, but share a common thread: A Love For the Bravely Written Word.
$12.99 USD
Oct 062016
 

You look at me with cupped hands
Your thumbs wipe away the tears that slip from my eyes without my permission
You whisper ‘baby it’s okay’
And, I know it will be.

Because, You created this day.
You knew the saltine water that would spill from my eyes
You knew as I struggled to catch my breath the word to escape my lips would be ‘sorry’
I have no reason to be sorry, I am Yours.

I grip onto Your hands and feel the holes in broken flesh and know that my scars are Yours
That as you hung on the cross You were working to purify and heal my inevitable sins.
With the flash of a light You knew from the start that this is how love would truly begin.
And, the Earth trembled as the Father eagerly awaited You at those Holy gates.

I wait on my charges just the same.
That they would walk through the door with lessons learned, full of Love and soul-y unscathed
I have to place their hands in Yours because it is You who holds life’s script
Like me, I know they too will trip.

You reach out that broken-scarred hand and raise us up from the depths
You show us that blind-faith is the only faith
That the answers are predestined, defined
That Your ordination is Love of the purest kind.

A compilation of 150 blog posts from the Five Minute Friday Community. The stories found in these pages span a diverse range of experiences, but share a common thread: A Love For the Bravely Written Word.
$12.99 USD

Sep 172016
 

I never knew that I could or would learn to be ashamed of my nakedness again, looking at my body and feeling like it should be hidden under layers of shapeless clothes, covering the saggy-breasts and stretch marks caused by having babies, the extra weight and even cellulite on my bum and hips becoming something that make me hate the mirror all while I am supposed to sit there and look into that same piece of glass and tell myself I am beautiful and loved, when a month ago I felt beautiful, I felt loved, and now I can barely look myself in the eyes without seeing the ugliness that everyone else must see when they look at me.

I wash my face and brush my teeth and when I lock eyes with my own tears well up and trickle down my cheeks, leaving a salted surface that feels like it’s eating away the very flesh that no one should be seeing anyway.

I am ugly.

I’ve never thought those three words before. I have thought I am fat. I need to lose weight. I have health issues. I have stretch marks or what I once called lines of love since they were formed while I was growing a child inside of me with months of bedrest keeping my weight out of control.

Yet today, and right now, I want to cover the mirrors in a shroud of black. I don’t want to see my reflection, or to be seen by anyone at all. I want to tape over my webcam just in case it accidentally gets turned on so that no one can be disgusted by the “what” that I have become. I toss on clothes despite being uncomfortably hot while covered in layers of thick blankets that already hide my body, just so I don’t have to see myself.

Like my ugliness is so appalling I shouldn’t even glance with my own eyes.

A month ago I was supposed to go in and get my annual check up and asked the nurse if my doctor could do it because he knows my scars and wounds and I don’t want anyone else to see them, now I won’t be making the appointment at all because I don’t want to disgust him with my nakedness, having to touch me through latex-free gloves and swab samples from the parts that are hidden away that most definitely shouldn’t be seen.

Last night I wore a long shapeless tunic with sleeves that met my hands and a skirt that met my ankles and I felt disgusting and exposed because I was wearing flip flops instead of something that would have covered me completely, like a pair of boots.

And yet, I am supposed to believe I am beautiful and all I want to do is hide.

Words cut deeper than any razor, knife or scalpel ever could. My confidence went from healthy to non-existent but it’s not anyone’s fault but my own because I am emotional and twist the words so they hurt instead of taking them to mean whatever they are “supposed” to.

I actually thought today that I should put on some makeup, not to feel pretty or playful, but to hide the disgusting skin I am in. Instead I stayed in bed all day because no one would want to see me anyway.

Because, I am ugly.

 

Sep 122016
 

Dust in the Snow –October 11 006 –Marisa Slusarcyk

Overthinking all that should be forgot
Took my blood without a second thought
You lied, I cried
Only wish one had died
The pain inside is obvious to see
Branded into her blood ridden lines of three
Push through the window braking hard to stop
I see you, I feel you
And as I come to a slow
You’re gone,
Like dust in the snow
Forever it feels you’ll bounce in my head
Get out of me, get out now
You’ve played enough games
Please take your final bow
My heart is broken
But for you it does not mourn
The scars on the outside match those on thee in
The life I have led
Because of you
Is buried in sin
One day you will pay as I do now
God is the forgiving type
But for you I don’t see how
In hell you will burn to ashes each day
Forgotten,
Like dust in the snow

Aug 152016
 

Why I write is definitely linked to my past. As many of you may know from hanging around through my ups and my intense downs I have been through a TON in my short life. Most of which was very traumatic. I suffer greatly from PTSD and a boat load of the side affects it comes with, like depression, severe anxiety, insomnia, suicidal thoughts, panic, and even self harm.

I have seen a dozen doctors/therapists/counsellors and I am on about a dozen different medications, all of which to help calm me down and hopefully help me to prevent the above symptoms, from getting worse than they are on a “normal” day.

However, along the broken-road I started to ask these very people who were set out to help me how they grew up, what their trauma’s are and I was shocked and felt more alone than ever when EVERY SINGLE ONE OF THEM told me that they have no experience with trauma but they are “trained to help trauma victims.”

One recommended after the loss of a baby that I go be like a “deer” and grieve in the woods for a few hours, literally shake it off and move on because that’s what animals are born to do. Just shake it off.

Unfortunately, I am not a deer, and unfortunately, I have been in a stopped vehicle while watching a gopher panic as it’s dead spouse lay in the middle of our highway, watching him run back and forth not quite sure what to do, trauma and sadness in the gophers eyes. Finally as he realized we weren’t going to hurt him he grabbed up the one he loved and pulled her crushed body off to the side of the road and into the woods. I am guessing he didn’t shake it off, he was too shaken up.

My heart broke for him as I sat there with a stream of tears remembering my own losses pouring down my cheeks.

I started to write. Not because I felt like what I had to say was of any importance, but because keeping it all in was literally killing me. My heart with an irraddic beat and requiring meds, my body shutting down, the blood stained razor adding another scar or two or three almost nightly. I needed to get the thoughts out of my head, whether they made sense or not.

Years later I call this a brain dump. Where I just open up a word document and let the words flow with no rhyme or reason, or I open a page in my journal and do the same. It’s unfortunate that most of my writings and ramblings are inspired or prompted by pain but it’s my hope and my prayer that in sharing my intimate thoughts, fears, frustration and deep love for Christ that someone who is sitting in a similar situation may find hope, or comfort in knowing they aren’t alone.

Their doctor may never have lost a baby or been raped, or experienced a trauma that they are willing to share, but I am, and its sad and scary how many have reached out to me to tell me they have been raped too, so many men have told me they were abused as a child after reading my words, some of whom claim they have never told anyone. I love that my hurt is allowing other people to hand their pain over and share in it and be understood rather than feeling alone and lost.

I believe the statistics are that 1 in 3 women are sexually abused at some point and 1 in 10 men. Of course those numbers aren’t accurate because they are based on what’s reported and I can sadly say that it is more like 9/10 people have been sexually assaulted or abused in some form at some point in their lives, whether it was a full fledged rape, molestation or something that made them feel uncomfortable, the line was crossed and 90% is simply too high.

Yet I am eager to learn and to listen and to offer guidance when the person asks.

So I write not only to cleanse my own brain of the pain that has plagued my soul since I was that 12 year old cold in the snow, but I write for those who have never shared and for those who have never been hurt and want to understand what they can do to support the ones in their lives who have been hurt.

I write because it protects me from myself.

I write because it’s a documentation of where I have been and where I never plan to go again.

I write because it’s my pained poetry, a tortured prayer where I know that God can see my soul through the blackness that often covers my heart and He can and will provide me with peace.


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