I’ve always dealt with bitterness. I had hoped to grow out of it. To one day, wake up and not be frustrated at those around me. And then something happens to remind me of why I have such a low view of human beings. I have a trip to India planned for December of this year. A group of us planned to go into India, to share the gospel, to love others by sharing the message of Christ, as we are called as believers. This trip is two months away. And last night I got a call from home. My visa can only be processed once I sign a document stating that this trip is purely tourist and I have no religious intent. My mother and father aren’t willing to lie. And so, short of a miracle, we have no way into India. I cried. The fact that a piece of paper could keep someone from hearing the message of Christ doesn’t make sense to me. I don’t really share much with those I am in a small group at church with. I don’t trust them. But last night, I needed prayer. I sent a message to all the ladies, hoping for encouragement and prayer. I got one response. One woman saying the Lord will work it out. And then, the conversation promptly moved to Jackie, who got a new washing machine. And many women piped in on that. Because that is relatable. That we can understand. That is important. And not one more thought will be given to the fact that our trip is likely not happening, that some people will not hear the gospel and will spend eternity in Hell, that our excitement to travel to the ends of the earth for the sake of the gospel is being extinguished. But hey, Jackie got a new washing machine. This is why I don’t share with people. They don’t care. They care about themselves and all that they can relate to. I’m disgusted and really angry. I just needed to rant, to a computer, because it seems that few people in my life actually care.
When did we become so tragically stunted in our emotional capacity to express empathy?
“Where were you when I was still kind?” – Gregory Alan Isakov, Master and a Hound
I don’t know what I’m trying to convey exactly,
I’m tired of feeling like the only lost one. I’m surrounded by others with goals and dreams and ambitions. And I wander. And I wonder. Am I the only one? Is no one else terrified? Everyone says that there’s time. They say to find what I love and then I’ll be happy. But I don’t love anything. I don’t have any passions. And I hate feeling like a freak, a reject, a moron, for that. I think it’s normal. I think so many of us are lost but we’re too scared to say anything. But why? Does the whole mentality of “fake it ’till you make it” really work? I may be the odd one out, but I prefer to be honest rather than pretend to love something I care nothing about. Cameron gets it. At least he starred in a blockbuster 80’s film. All I’ve got going are some fringe bangs and a nose ring and a blog that gets a few likes on a good day. I think I need a friend or someone to come and tell me it’s okay and to make me believe it. Because all of the adults who have their lives together telling me – it’s not working.
“What are you interested in?”
I write because sometimes I feel trapped,
by the expectations of others,
I never feel like I’m enough except when I write.
Here, I am free to open my mind and explore the thoughts I’m too afraid to express to others.
I hope she’ll be a fool—that’s the best thing a girl can be in this world, a beautiful little fool.