I say I am.
He says I'm not.
I guess the fact that my most intimate friend thinks I'm an extrovert shows how far I've come from the book loving wallflower of my childhood. Which is good news in most ways.
Lately I've been noticing the introvert inside me raise her head again. I've been a whirling vortex of thoughts and emotions and confusion that has coagulated into one thing- FEAR.
I'm afraid. I feel the changes coming. Like the wind that blows before a storm rolls in, I feel it on my face, in my heart. One season of life is closing and another is beginning. And I want to put my head down, and crawl into the safety of a still small corner and let it pass me by.
You see I know me. I know my inadequacies. My foolishness. My vanities. My failures.
I know this new season will require more. More dying to self. More cross carrying. More refining. It's always worth it. But the journey to looking more like Christ is painful and the stretching tears my ligaments and beats my heart a thousand times faster and cracks my bones. And yet what is true is that I have suffered nothing for him, really. So why the fear?
He is faithful.
He is here before me in the storm and the wind and the change.
His hand is before me outstretched and I have to, I must, follow my good Shepherd. I strain to hear his Voice right now. My own treacherous heart is deaf and cold.
It's time to put the introvert aside-the girl that wants to hide, and step out as the woman who follows.
I have been spending quality time lately with my favorite poets and writers. This from Martha Medieros sums up my heart tonight:
He who becomes the slave of habit,
who follows the same routes every day,
who never changes pace,
who does not risk and change the color of his clothes,
who does not speak and does not experience,
dies slowly.
He or she who shuns passion,
who prefers black on white,
dotting ones "i"
who follows the same routes every day,
who never changes pace,
who does not risk and change the color of his clothes,
who does not speak and does not experience,
dies slowly.
He or she who shuns passion,
who prefers black on white,
dotting ones "i"
rather than a whirlpool of emotions,
the kind that make your eyes glimmer,
that turn a yawn into a smile,
that make the heart pound in the face of mistakes and feelings,
dies slowly.
that turn a yawn into a smile,
that make the heart pound in the face of mistakes and feelings,
dies slowly.
