I am…not. Far more often than I am. I find myself weak, confused, confusing and complicated. When I desire most to be…more. Able. Competent.
Instead I merely survive.
Have I ever done more than survive? I’m sure I’ve had glimpses.
I have been broken and shattered into pieces bearing little resemblance to the person I used to be. The person I want to become. The person I hoped to have grown into by now.
I have needs. Desperate needs calling from within me in a language I don’t understand and cannot repeat. Knowledge of what hunger is cannot be confused with the gnawing, demanding drive to be fed. But hunger ignored soon fades and I have lost the understanding of it. The empathy for it. Especially applied to my own soul. I do not hunger. I stolidly follow the path of what I know I should do, where I know I should go.
I try. When all else fails, when success isn’t measured in steps but in decisions made and moments embraced I can honestly say that I have continued to try. To stand up again. Even when I know I will be broadsided in the attempt.
Somehow. Some way. I will stand.
Shored up on every side. White knuckles, hands clenched, I remain clinging to a faint promise of someday when I will be more than I am today.
Beyond services rendered, activities coordinated, life orchestrated. When the core of who I am is stronger. When my spirit is richer and my soul less shredded.
And yet, somehow, in the state I am in, without having done a thing to prove my worth I am stunned at the realization that he needs me.
Truly. Needs. Me.
Even as I am. More than ever before. With a tenderness, a compassion, and a hope that I cannot deserve or understand. Or earn.