a shout out ((to all the beautiful souls in the house))

He was always there. 
Always there at every basketball game, every baseball game, every football game.
Most people came and went, but Brandon, you see, he was always there. 
We were just sitting there, the two of us. Eating our bacon pizza with green peppers at the red checkered booth. Talking about some crazy dream of ours to raise money to build a well.
That's when Brandon came up and sat down at the booth right beside me, catching me off guard. 
I didn't really know Brandon, other than seeing him around town a couple times before. 
And while I didn't know his story, it was obvious he had some handicap that made him an outcast in the town. 
That's not fair, I know. 
Someone shouldn't be an outcast just because they're different. Because they're a little slower. Just because there's something about them that they can't change. 
But more often than not, that's what life is: unfair. 
The next fifteen minutes were some of the most precious.
Brandon didn't really pay attention to me. He was too busy talking to Nick. And to be honest, I can't even tell you what they were talking about. I heard little bits and pieces of it. I heard them talking about video games and music.
But mostly I just watched. I watched as this boy of mine, this best friend of mine, sat across the table from me, listening so intently to Brandon, genuinely caring. Asking questions. Hardly even noticing that I was staring because he was too focused on what Brandon was saying. 
I couldn't help but think, "This just must be one of the most beautiful souls I've met."
It's moments like that I think I fall in love. 
With humanity. With people. With life. 
When I see people's hearts bleed through.
It's moments like that when I think, "Perhaps we really can change the world."
Not with the big acts, as great as they are. 
But with the small acts that often go unnoticed by others. 
Genuinely asking someone how they are. Baking a plate of cookies. Holding the door opening for someone. Giving them a chance. Encouraging them. 
Because, believe me, you never know how much a small act you do can impact someone else. 

These Stain Glass Tatters

I hate to think.

Because when I think, it takes me to some very dark places.

Places that I can't escape from.

I'm slipping away.

I can feel myself falling.

And yet I can't do anything to stop it.

I feel like I am watching in slow motion as the person I thought I was falls apart.

Who was this person, this girl?

The girl who knew all the answers?
The girl who always had a smile on her face?

The girl who was determined to change the world?

Was she the easy way to deny who I really am?

The mirage of who I want to be?

Whoever she was, she's dying now.

Bit by bit, she's crumbling.

Piece by piece, she's falling apart.

This facade that hide the pain.

That buried the questions she didn't want to face.

Because, you see, you can't run forever.

No matter how hard you run, no matter how fast, the person who you truly are will always catch up.

Always.

But tell me—what kind of life is this to live!

One of emptiness. Of desperation. Of fear.

Tell me! What kind of pathetic, meaningless life is this to live?

The night is coming. The light is leaving.

I try to hold onto the precious remaining shimmers of light but they are fading fast.

The darkness consumes me, welcomes me with open arms.

God, where are you now? Where are you in this darkness?

I beg, “Come and bring your light!”

But I am stuck, lost in this ever-lasting night.

And the girl, the mirage of who I once was, still keeps crumbling, dying.

And when she is gone, I am left with who I really am.

At first, fear paralyzes me. I can't move. I look towards my feet and realize they are covered by masks.

Masks that represent who I once was. The painted smiles that hid the pain. The tidy answers that kept God neatly tucked in little theological boxes where he could be explained and understood.

That's when I realize. I am standing in the remains of who I once was.

I feel vulnerable, exposed. And afraid. So very afraid.

After a while, curiosity overtakes me. Curiosity over who I am now that everything else has been stripped away.

And then I notice, a little girl hunched over in the corner. Shoulders shaking. Sobbing, most likely.

At first disgust fills my mouth. She looks so small. Lonely. Barely alive.

But then, for some reason, my heart starts to ache for her. I can almost taste her pain in my mouth.

I timidity walk over and stand over her, about to put my hand on her shoulder to offer comfort.

But she starts to speak and I cannot move.

I listen to her soft mumblings, hurt laced in each word she says.

I cannot move. Her words captivate and paralyze me.

“What's the point of fighting if you have nothing to fight for?

What's the point of living if you have nothing to live for?

What's the point of it all? This pathetic, meaningless life.”

It hits me. In some way that I can't fully explain, this girl is me.

I feel the panic rise up in me.

I feel the disgust all over again.

I have to get out of here.

I turn to leave, but I can't. The walls are coming closer. The room is shrinking. They're trapping me in, locking me in a tiny cell.

“No! NO!” I scream, pounding on the walls. Cement. My hands are cracked and bleeding. Trembling. I sink down, unable to contain myself any longer as tears begin to spill out.

I am trapped in a tiny room with my worst enemy: myself.

Then I see it. Through my eyes blurry from tears, I notice the cross in the room. Stained with blood.

An emotion swells in my soul, something I can't describe.

“What was it that you saw in me that you loved enough to hang on that cross? What was it you saw?”

Then I feel anger. Pure rage. I stand up, shaking my first at the ceiling.

“Tell me! What was it you saw in me that you were able to hang on that cross? Don't you see who I really am? I am ugly. I am unworthy. I am disgusting. Tell me why you love me. Surely you can't love me more than I can hate myself. I'll ask you one more time—what was it you loved enough about me that you willingly hung on the cross for me?”

There is no answer. Only silence. Deafening silence.

“Some kind of God you are.”

Something bright flashes in the corner of my eye, making me look away. The first light I've seen since being trapped in this tiny cell. I turn around, slowly, hesitantly.

There I see it: a stained glass window. It intrigues me, pulls me in. Some of the colored pieces of glass are bright, others are calm, reminding me of life. Memories come rushing back. Counting falling stars. Holding babies in my arms. Laughing until tears came to my eyes.

But something wasn't quite right with the picture.

I lean forward, frowning. Some of the pieces of glass were once bright, happy colors—oranges and reds and purples. But over time they were painted over with darker, ugly colors. Happy days that turned into long, lonely nights. Carefree days that quickly turned into crying on my bed, begging God for an answer. Crying in my closest, feeling so lonely and rejected. The fake smile that turned into the deep sadness that never really went away.

But despite the dark colors, the stained glass window was beautiful. And then I realize. Just like the girl in the corner, this window represented me. Broken bits and pieces, some representing color and laughter, others representing hurt and buried secrets.

I am so intrigued by the window that I nearly miss the small words written in the corner:

You are the righteousness of God in Christ Jesus.

I stand up. I can feel my heart beating for the first time in forever.

I close my eyes, open my mouth.

“I am the righteousness of God in Christ Jesus.”

And when I open my eyes, the darkness is gone.