I have scars on my wrists. On the left wrist, the line is jagged and unsure. I cut that one first, probably because I'm right handed. I wasn't committed to the idea of killing myself just yet. By the time I got to my right wrist, it was little easier. That one is a clean, determined line, made once the shock of seeing the red beads of blood seep through my open flesh had died down.
The scars are very faint now, and I don't think about them much. Though, there are occassions when I'm handing money to a cashier, or something to a colleague at work, and I find myself hoping that they don't notice. No one has ever asked me about them, though. I guess it would be impolite to do so.
I remember that awful day, and the startling ordinariness of it. The sun rose, just as expected. I got up, started my day, went to work, just like today, the exception being I go to work at night now, and leave when the sun rises.
And then something went wrong, just like today. It was work related. Like today. I felt sad and hopeless, like today. I had Jesus, like today. So, why am I not dragging razor blades across my wrists?
I don't know. Maybe because like that day, I really don't want to die. You gotta admit, slicing your wrists the wrong way is a pretty punk attempt at ending your life. Maybe because I've grown up since then. Or maybe because even though I'm about to be fired, and I'm worried about how I'll feed my kids and keep a roof over our heads, I know somehow that Jesus will help. He'll have pity on me, because I don't have anything left but Him. And I'm not above the embarassment of throwing myself, hard, on His mercy.
Many people would find the idea of God pitying them about as distasteful as ragamuffins confessing their suicide attempts in their blogs. Unfortunately, I've told you all such awful things about myself it really doesn't matter that you know one more. I like God's pity. I find it somehow comforting. Besides, this raga is still here. There are no razor blades in my hands, which I stopped typing with to lift toward Heaven in thanksgiving, scars and all. I've discovered something that young raga was still struggling to discover. Jesus loves me. He has pity. He won't mind being my hiding place, and God knows, I've taken to my bed and am hiding like a fugitive today.
And here you are. Young raga didn't have friends like you. Isn't this an amazing thing? On this sad and scary day I can count on a community of people that I honestly believe love me. You show up, read, talk to me. You send me prayers, and tell me how you want to hug me. You quote the Word, and send me e-mails that let me know that I'm not alone. Jesus, I don't have to do this alone. I don't have to hurt myself, because all of you are here. Here with Jesus, and I know you're here. Thanks for coming. You don't know how much I need you. I won't be making new scars today.
But, I am crying all over my keyboard, so I'll stop writing and go get more tissue to blow my nose. The last thing I need is to ruin my laptop with all this snot and tears. So goodbye friends, if you don't see more for a while, I'm just seeking my sanctuary in Him.
"If you'll hold on to me for dear life," says God, "I'll get you out of any trouble. I'll give you the best of care if you'll only get to know and trust me. Call me and I'll answer, be at your side in bad times;I'll rescue you, then throw you a party. I'll give you a long life, give you a long drink of salvation." (Psalms 91:14-16 The Message)
I'll see you at the party. I'll be at the bar, drunk with His salvation.