Outcast into the Kingdom
Hundreds of people paced by me, with quick glances at the books lying on tables and beautified display boards positioned in hopes of attracting just one convert. In the midst of this, I had never felt such loneliness in my life. I let it perpetrate my heart, fully allowing the melancholy to swallow me. In my mind, this was my job, fully and forevermore. Maybe I had become numb to this. My mind wandered back and forth, trying to focus on what an exhibition hall was meant for, but inevitably reverting back to fueling my despair with the presumed happiness of others. With a coffee in hand, I faked a smile bought by everyone, except God. But that didn't matter, because I've always been very honest with him anyways. He knew my frustrations and the bitterness present in my heart. Resorting to divine intervention slowly became my only outlet. I didn't believe anyone could help me. So, I kept it to myself, the deep pain of seeing happy couples walk down the aisles of scattered books. Besides, no one would understand or I would just seem weak, unattractive even. That wasn't exactly the goal.
I waited for something whimsical to happen but that was the natural side of me longing for the miracles I wrote so often about in my stories. In reality, I knew God had nothing for me except a pile of paper bound together and a slew of exhibitors imploring me to join their cause. These were the emotions I juggled, along with these supposed life-changing decisions presented to me to make. One person explained the dire needs of Syrian refugees and another depicted the terror of ISIS throughout the world. Yet, there I stood, in complete understanding of the implications that the harvest is plentiful but the workers few. Still, I stood in an indescribable, palpable aura of loneliness.
So, I resorted to what I knew best and that consisted of a pulsing beat of pain throbbing in my heart and mind. Sometimes I wonder if I'm addicted to sadness. No one could know, how calculated every move was and the neighboring cause for every bit of emotion. I wasn't drenched in tears but wouldn't have minded if I were. Perhaps it'd be better if everyone saw me for the absolute mess I displayed inwardly. But what was the point? As far as I was concerned, it would do little to change my prospects. Nobody likes an emotional guy either.
What else could I do but wrestle with the only person in the world who knew every bit of emotion I felt. In the times I meditate with God, I actually don't get many answers. I still feel a deep sense of melancholy and it seems incurable. But good enough, I figure, that someone hears my bits of anger and disappointment. To think that the holiest of all beings listens to me, with no room for even the slightest of judgement for all my embarrassment, provides me with the slightest sighting of solace.
You see, I have a ton of hurt I can write about and dozens of ways I want to express the injustice I feel. To even think about doing these things, however, means divulging my entire self for the consumption of the world and I know that isn't possible. So I'm thankful for a relational God who peers into the deepest caverns of our souls and considers it forgiven and redeemable. Otherwise, I'm not sure how I would cope with the desire to descent into madness.
I wasn't sure if I could snap back into reality but I needed to find peace somehow, even if it came with a lingering drought of joy. I walked aimlessly, staring at book titles for even the slimmest words of prophecy, but none stuck out. On the outside, I looked normal, busy browsing just like everyone else. The question, then, is this: how many other people felt just like me? But the thought of that painted a picture too sorrowful, even for someone of my stature.
Eventually, I found myself walking out the doors of the exhibition hall and into a frigid winter's night. I guess any bit of walking away from my place of despair signaled a light of hope. No one here really understands but at least the God of the universe hears my tiny squeal. In that moment, I felt a tiny ounce of happiness, in the complete surrendering of my misery to a God, I imagine, is ever so willing to hear my story. The radiation of melancholy still perpetrated my entire body but at least I knew it would all, somehow, be okay.
And I thought I heard a voice scream my name, but I kept walking. I kept walking.