Introspection: Blurred Lines

dotted-line-flat-lines-blurred-lines

Dear God,
I should start by saying thank you, shouldn’t I? For the things done of which I know of, and those I’m totally clueless about. So, thank you.
I am addressing this to you because there really isn’t anyone else I can tell this who will make a remarkable difference.

See, you gave me this really great personality. You know the kind that morphs and shifts all the time so it’s easier to relate with different kind of people? And a mind like a sponge. I can soak up a lot of information–sometimes I’m not even aware it’s happening, then everything comes tumbling out when they’re needed, and I’m like “Holy smokes! I know this?” But you know all these already, don’t you? You know everything.

You know the circumstances surrounding my birth. You know how a blissfully happy, ignorant childhood was ripped off. You know how hard I have had to struggle with knowing you, getting really angry with you for letting all those things happen–not just to me, but the people I love–and you know my anger was outright fueled by the fact that the lives of these people I cared about affected me in more ways than one. See? You made me like this, and I’m not sure what to do with it.
So I change personalities as much as Mercy Johnson changes characters in her movies. I’m afraid somewhere in the mix I lost total sight of who I really was. Now I’m more concerned who I am, and who I want to always be.

But that isn’t everything. I really need to know why you love me this much. Why? I feel totally unworthy, and yet I have this feeling you’ve been holding on so tight and yelling “I will not let you go!”
I think that’s great because I find myself slipping in more ways than one. I’m really not sure what’s happening, but I don’t like it one bit. Some of these people I have become in the past didn’t make me feel good about myself, or you either and I honestly want to please you. I guess you know that. Somehow I think maybe that’s why you have been holding on to me. You see the heart of man, while people look at physical appearance and actions. You understand the struggles–physical, mental, emotional–we face everyday, and you judge our actions based on that. I have slipped a hundred times already, and yet I feel you close by with your hand outstretched asking me to hold on. I haven’t.

Lord, I’m lost and in need of help. I mean the kind of help where you send a legion of Angels to minister. But most importantly, I need you. Just you. I have all these ‘depth'(like he calls it) that I can’t even begin to understand….don’t know what to do with it. But you know. Could you show me please? Will you take my hand and lead the way? Will you help me find me? The lines are blurred, and I see nothing.
Help me dear Lord, please?

Advertisements

6 thoughts on “Introspection: Blurred Lines

    • uju December 3, 2014 / 4:19 pm

      No, thank YOU 🙂
      I hope you stay.

      Like

  1. Lizzieebunoluwa September 25, 2014 / 4:54 pm

    Who are you? This is too real for comfort. How do you find the courage to put it out there? How come you can?

    Like

    • uju September 26, 2014 / 5:37 am

      I don’t know. When you’re in a dark place and in need of some help, you tend to stop looking outwards and try connecting with God.

      Like

  2. Little Miss Menopause March 21, 2014 / 10:04 pm

    Wow. Just wow. This is really soul-searchingly beautiful. I’ve never seen anyone write a letter to God, like this. I think this can be very therapeutic. I might give it a try.

    Like

    • ujuh March 24, 2014 / 11:24 am

      It is therapeutic 😉 I felt better after unburdening.

      Like

Your turn...

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s