An interesting whisper in the middle of the night.
It echoes out in a way that I can’t quite explain, because it should be so much quieter than it is. It should simply speak and then be quiet. Yet it doesn’t do that.
It speaks and then it echoes, and echoes and echoes and echoes, and I could keep telling that it echoes, but eventually it does end.
Until it starts again.
I wish it wasn’t so. I wish it would simply be done and that I could just be done with this echo, with this whisper, with its words, but it simply comes back.
Sometimes this whisper manages to avoid me for a day, or a week, or even months at a time. Though the months on end is a rarity, so rare that I might just be making that idea up to make my soul feel a little bit better about the consistency of the whisper.
Something in me doesn’t hate the echo.
The whisper does house comfort.
It remains longer than anything else has.
Something in me, a larger part, hates that I don’t hate it.
I should desire it to leave me.
I should simply will it away.
But I don’t.
I wonder if a day will arrive when the whisper won’t come.
It has bruised me with hurt.
It has scarred me with pain.
It has utterly ruined me.
. . .
Suddenly I realize that the whisper is not what it seems.
It does not bring comfort. I always thought that it would, or that it was, or that it had.
It does not.
The whisper tells me that I am not enough.
That sudden realization stays with me. It sticks with my heart as I start to speak in a voice loud than the whisper, telling it to be quiet, and reminding it that it is a lie.
I seek a better whisper to listen to.
A whisper that tells me that the body I have been given is the correct one. A body, a soul, a mind, all created in the image of an invisible one. An invisible one that is also fully visible to my soul.
I start to realize this and the initial whisper slowly gets quieter.
As I recognize and realize that the One of whom I speak of, created me, that He formed me in my mother’s womb, and that He ordained all the days of my life – I realize yet another thing.
The whisper is not His voice.
I start to be able to distinguish between this whisper and His voice. His voice is louder. It is kinder. It is stronger. It never bruises yet it fully stretches. It never scars though it does pull me from a place of hurt to a place of wholeness. In a way it does scar me, but in the most beautiful way.
It scars me with love.
The whisper is gone.
The love remains.