speaking the “unspeakable”

Brothers & Sisters.

This is for you.

Something wild has been brewing in my heart over the past few years. I have done my best to fight the calling that has been placed on my life, but I think it is about time I give in.

To put it bluntly, I think that the Lord is calling me to be someone who speaks the unspeakable. All of those hurts and hangups that we as a society, whether within the church or not, have chosen to stay silent about with one another.

Mental illness, homosexuality, eating disorders, self hate, suicidal thoughts, addictions, family troubles, and so on.

If I claim to believe in the scandalous truth of the Gospel, I also choose to believe that shame and guilt has no place in our lives. The first step towards fighting is to open our mouths. How in the world have we created this terrible system of sealed lips and aching hearts? We aren’t designed to stay silent about our struggles and hurts. We are not alone- and the best way to see that is the share.

With that said, I find myself on my knees praying for this generation. That we would be people of truth, vulnerability and honesty. Whether we share the same faith or not, you are a valuable human being who deserves to be loved for who you are. Stop believing the lies that you worth less than that.

I will share more later. I just wanted to give a brief snapshot of my life lately.

Speak up, friends. Don’t be alone.

With endless love,

Ry

with maps and a promise
icy bones from years of war.
tell me the tales, darlin’
‘til we’re puddles on the floor.

that texas boy

I sat on my front porch this evening. I am convinced that all of the best houses have front porches.

I sat there and watched as the balmy but blue sky grew heavy. She traded her untroubled canvas for one etched with the darkest of watercolors. The sort that only seem to be made by accident, as if some 5 year old got a hold of far too many colors at once. Within a handful of seconds, the girl I used to know was gone. The pretty lady who would let the warmest of winds mess up my hair, deciding that she was a far superior stylist than I, gave up her combs and scissors for crying eyes and rattling bones.

From my front porch, I watched the grass grow heavy with drops of water. A million crystal balls mocking the thirsty soil. I’m sure this isn’t quite what the dry ground had in mind. The blades of grass drooped low, letting my sweet girl’s tears slide to the floor. One after the other they fell, creating island chains where my front yard stood. Cracks and whips shook my chest, blinded my eyes and stole my breath.

My front porch has held a suitcase of memories over the last year. The hammer and nail craft afternoons spent making something new from a thrift store find. The journal sessions full of poetic words and honest thoughts. The meaningful conversations with friends who touched parts of my soul I had forgotten were there…whether by myself or not, I felt a sense of belonging on this porch.

But in that moment, aside from my bipolar artist of a girl, I felt completely alone. Not the kind of isolation that is often sought after a particularly rough day at work. Or the kind of solo-time needed to clear the mind from worry. The kind of alone that reaches much deeper than the empty bench seat next to me.

I have fought hard to find the words to explain this familiar, yet unappreciated, feeling. I suppose this is the best way to say it. The chaos and unpredictability of the skies above were a direct representation of my heart and soul. In one moment, the canvas is clear and bright- full of possibility and potential. My brave, honest moments of courage and freedom. Chasing dreams and fighting lies. But seconds later, I see that unruly kindergartner with his watercolors drawing a picture that feels unclear, and much darker than I would have designed. Someone call his parents already.

My skin hasn’t felt much like mine. It smells of someone else, and I don’t think I know his name. I don’t recognize the way he walks through the door, or the way he stares into the mirror. His words have changed and his heart is full of dishonest desires. His clothes don’t fit. His voice shakes in ways it didn’t used to. I wonder if my sweet sky girl is thinking the same thing about me. “What happened to my honest Texas boy? …I used to know him.”

This is my attempt to talk to you, Lord. Do you see how much it is still raining? I understand my moments of leaving the umbrella at home. Some days I do it on purpose. But my eyes are too full of rain and tears to see anymore.