Fall Metaphoric Article
You stand there . . . dressed in a hoodie, jeans, and boots, sipping hot cocoa from a thermos. Laughter carries from the bonfire, and you feel the need to join the festivities so you begin your trek across the lawn to your fellow peers and family.
As you make your way to the fire, you crunch and crack dead leaves and broken branches. My heart, you think as the twigs break. Like t he leaves have fallen from the trees, you were once on top of the world; confident, but no egotistical; beautiful but not conceited.
A sudden wind whirls around you, and you hold tight to your black cloak. Loneliness is what you feel. It grasps you so, it nearly suffocates you. Your friends wrap around you, but all you want is solitude. You feel in your pocket for the note, and naked tears fill your hurting eyes. The note might become your story within a few hours. Friends are supposed to be a citadel, a support system. This is your final resort-- one last chance for someone to prove they care.
As you approach the fire, its cruel warmth heats your flushed cheeks. You immediately think about how your own anger has burned you to nothing but decimated ashes. It has made you bitter and self-shunned. You refuse to let love in your heart. An ex- close friend comes to lead you by where she sits, and you try to plaster a kind smile on your face. She and you can tell its fake. Your depression is avid tonight, and the curses slit your mind into self- worthlessness.
A boy has a guitar, and he strums a song of praise to God. You scoff and say, "If only there was something to be praised about. My life is a curse." Your muscles, tense from resistance, begin to relax and you lean forward, trying to obscure the dewiness that you're sure is reflected in your eyes by the firelight. "Why am I here?" you whisper grudgingly. "I'm not meant for this world."
Even though twenty people surround you, it seems like you're on Jupiter. So many emotions swirl around you that you swear up and down you're going through the Red Spot. As a wet droplet trickles down your cheek, you swipe it away quickly, and hate yourself for showing your weakness.
The boy looks at you compassionately, then continues to play chords. He never breaks eye contact you, and suddenly you feel as if you're laying in a pit of worms. He makes you so uncomfortable, you feel as if he might be a sexual sadist wanting to devour your innocence . . . if there's any more.
A sweet woman, a couple chairs away from you to the left, silently raises from her chair and kneels by you with empathy shining in her mini- mirrors. "The eyes reflect everything, my love," she tells you. She takes her warm hands and envelopes your icy ones in hers. "I can't imagine what you must feel that makes you feel like you're going through strife . . ." As she says this, the wind lifts the ends of your hair off your back. "But I know that the morning will break soon. This train will release you to the desert of comfort. I love you, sweetheart."
Unlike you, your body falls to the ground by this woman and you bury your face in her breasts, weeping unashamed. She cradles you, understanding you need to grieve for pain and loss. You feel warmer, and you briefly open your shut eyes to see many people are surrounding you and wrapping them in your arms.
A minister breaks through the wall of love circling you, then looks in your eyes. He picks you up and carries you to the bench farthest away from anyone else. He kisses your head, then looks at you with soft and loving eyes. "You need time to cry, to walk even. Surrender these feelings and you will be free! Dance at the sunrise! Your desert is pursuing you."
He leads you on the path down through the forest and the dark pines make you feel scared. The creepy thoughts you've been having and giants hovering over you can be comparable to these trees. He talks things through with you, prays with you, and finally you feel victorious. You hug him in the most appropriate way before you waltz to your car. Your shoulders feel lighter and there's an easy spring to your step.
The next morning, you wake up to an arctic house due to a power outage. Because it is below freezing outside, you decide to spend the cool morning at the quiet and peaceful library. You find your keys, amidst in a cluttered pile of bills and pills, then hop in your Chevy S-10 and drive slowly to the refuge of books.
When inside, you find a table at the back of the sweet sanctuary. No one is here except the custodian and the director of the library, so no one bothers you. Suddenly, you gaze around the shelves of books and feel urgently that only one book matters. You ask the director if she has an understandable Bible.
You open the gold-fringed pages of the precious love note, and rest your head on the table. You don't read, don't think; just sit and listen to your Father. He tells you that you are fearfully and wonderfully made; that the Lord has great and marvelous plans for you. He understands you completely and weeps with you, that His Son makes intercession for you. You learn that you are the apple of his eye, and he delights in you more than you think. You were worth dying for, Jesus says so. I sob silently and sit quietly until you feel you are free from the oppression of depression and loneliness.
A bright light of joy fireworks in the hazel of your eyes. The library is your desert, where the Lord took you and spoke to you tenderly. You thank him for the dryness and solitude and the sunrise of hope that has just risen. You grab a sheet of paper and a pen and journal what just happened. Then you rush out to the lobby and use the pay phone so you can call the minister and let him rejoice with you. :)
"All things are possible with Christ." -- Philippians 4:13
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