My truth is part of my talent, so I asked why have I swallowed my story? isn’t that like swallowing gold ? I arrive wearing half my story. Stuffed my words into my pockets, crumpled up and swallowed my history, smeared beautifying paste upon my complexion so I do not look like one who has been scorched by struggle. This is living in hiding. Frenetic but silent . I arrive half dressed, like there have been significant gaps in my days, I can’t tell it all. I am ashamed.
I carry my secrets to the lavender place. The purple of God’s listening table. Or the armchair where my mother sits and wills me to victory. In those secret places, the inner battles roll off my tongue like a carpet unfurling.
I hadn’t realised that there was purpose in the incomplete days, that the misshapen Tuesdays where expertly sculpted. That destiny came dressed mismatched, and uncouth. Burped her food and slurped her soup. That my days were lived out often one quizzical jigsaw puzzle piece after another. That there were holes in everything. And yet I was to sink into this crochet of existence. Love the neighbours I didn’t choose, be aware that at this moment I am planted where I need to be. That all things work out for the good of those who love God. And to trust him with my blood stained skirt, the past that bleats and mocks and hurts. The sensitivity in me, that smashes like windows, shiny but jagged to host. And amidst it all in my battered soul, I have my daily Pentecost, the whisper of the Holy Ghost, the fire that fuels my frenzied verbs, that drives me in my purpose. The complex picture of it all, my trembling muscles and my gaping holes, that scream of evil trumped by good, like his perforated hands. And show simultaneously the meeting point where God’s spirit meets my fractures, and his word becomes my water as my mind wheezes and runs. So this here, is some of the ugly part of the story. I drop the partial picture. Knowing that we overcome by the ransom Christ paid. But also by the telling of true stories, and showing how our darkness meets his yellowness of glory.
©2021 Tendayi Sutherland
