I saw that. The flicker of emptiness behind your smile. You look so happy; you’re so fragile. You’re a mom, a college kid, you’re on the search for love. You see the apple and love its taste, but deep inside you waste. You don’t believe in God at all, or if He’s there, unreachable. You don’t believe He’d come for you; all that talk is trash. Intelligent people know better, you know. Because you’ve poked the holes, they’re everywhere. Nothing can stop the water flow now. Emptier and emptier, your life unwinds. How strange, to enjoy the present and yet loathe existence. There’s nothing out there, nobody to hear. It just doesn’t exist.
Yet I see that flicker. The emptiness that you know shouldn’t be, can’t be, must not be. A handwritten message on your heart says there must be more; you’ve tried to snuff it out, you can’t. All your education and all your experience tells you of its fallacy; you try to stamp it out, more and more aggressively when the kids are asleep. A mother love must come from somewhere, must point to something. You don’t believe it, or do you?
If you hold out much longer you’ll disintegrate. You want justice–but there isn’t any, so why search for it? You want love–but it is empty, so why pursue it? You realize the imperfection–but if there is no perfection, what nonsense is this?
I’ll tell you something, it isn’t nonsense. Those codes that tell you how life ought to be were written by somebody and meant somewhere. Not here. There must be more. You can’t deny it. You can’t live this way, in this void; you scramble and claw for more. It’s right there, on those pages, do you see it? Black and white, clear and plain; He’s there, He loves justice, He loves you. Learn about the barrier. Learn the way around it. It’s right there, on those pages, in a letter written to ancient people that remains to this day. Read 1, 2, 3, and 5. There is a way. Your key is: Romans.
Chez Lavande 