A story from this weekend:
A man was imprisoned for his faith for over 30 years. He was left in solitary confinement, only ever greeted by the presence of people who were his torturers. Years went by, as he lived underground. He forgot what the sun looked like, what snow felt like, what grass even was. Worst, he said, he did not have access to His precious Word.
Discouraged, He went to the Lord. Remembering the days of old where He would speak to those He loves, the man asked, “Lord, won’t you speak to me?”. And the man, expecting words of comfort and hope, instead was met with a question - “What is your name?”.
For his whole life, he had been called Richard. But he knew about a saint in England with the same name. He was afraid that if he replied “Richard”, God might ask him, “Are you that Richard? Who died for me?”. So he eliminated that response. He then thought perhaps he could reply with “Christian”. But even that seemed unfit for him when he thought about the persecutions in the early church where people willingly walked into arenas to be devoured by wild animals. So finally he replied humbly and asked the Lord on his knees,
"Jesus. Would you allow me to bear your name?”
I do have a bunch of ideas to keep writing about, but I found a few of my previous posts particularly powerful. Hah. Unintentional alliteration. Yummy - my favorite. Anyways, this one stuck out to me the most.
I guess this might be a sort of series, where I respond to my past self by finishing up or editing my original drafts.
Here we go:
To her, all stories were important. She kept them close, pocketed away in the ever-cluttered bookshelves of her heart. Some were fantastical and others so sorrowful, but always important enough to earn a place next to another with a worn down and ever so loved cover. Each of them, pieces of her whole self, but never exactly whole. They were all like flashes of light to her - some bright and some dull, but all light nonetheless. Every page reminded her of what she loved and hated and in-betweened about this life. There she would escape for moments, but only to be greeted once again by the last page. Endings, she wondered, endings.
And every time she wondered this, her eyes would glance nervously over to that strange book in the middle of the room. The one with no back cover. It was a story that always felt too real, too dangerous, too mysterious, too hurtful to get close to. It sat alone. Far apart from all of the other dear books. Never loved so close to feel the tears of the trembling hands that held them; never so near to see the sly smiles she gave to the characters within; never so warm from the breath of one fully fallen into the beautiful disarray of twenty six letters pain-ted on a simple canvas.
Because, you see. It is hers.
And she is afraid.
But then she notices, a faint glimmer of the silver print on the hard leather cover. Expecting the familiar carvings of her name on the by line, she is instead greeted with differently curved lines. Curious, she walks over and at the sight of the Name -
May was the last time I posted any kind of text post on here. I filled up this blog with cats, fashion, food, and clever quotes, but I think it’s time to return to the core of what Roren is.
Returning to Tumblr might be the wrong statement, but returning to public writing is I guess what this really is. And frankly, I don’t promise anything to the future of this blog, except to, of course, promise nothing at all.
It’s strange, but I feel emotional opening this door once again. To say that I am afraid is to say the least of it. I always thought my writing self too concerned about the little things, too existential, too phony, too emotional, too horrible, too stupid, too over-thought, too not-properly-worded, too idealistic, too grandiose, too…. just… too.
But it’s this familiar white box, this light blue publish button, this always tempting grey close button, this dark blue backdrop, and this me. I reminisce the joy, the tears, the smiles, the pain, the laughter, the sleepiness, all of it. It’s not the medium, really, but what it bids me to do once more. To open this door again?
Yes. Because this writing is me, in honest.
And it is by no means to your benefit for you to know anything about my thoughts or my soul or my heart, but I return perhaps in hope that maybe you might keep me company and join me for a silent chat here and there while I walk on and ramble on. Do feel free to come and go as you please, as this is my story and entirely your choice.
….but if you do decide to join, coffee is always a warm and welcome companion.