I can’t recall how many broken hymns I’ve cried in wooden pews, wanting to drink the red wine of redemption, searching the written word and wishing Jesus would speak to the bitterness within. Emotionally ruined, I am brokenness wrapped in skin, hollowed out like an abandoned tree gutted by mother nature. I am coming to terms with the wilted parts of my heart.
When that star fell from heaven, burning its last light of brilliance, fire racing toward the earth to kiss it with finality after being cast out from its heavenly domain, I cried—-because I knew how that star felt. The crown of a virtuous woman sat on my head crooked. There was no oil of joy for the mourning of my soul, no garment of praise for the spirit of heaviness, and no beauty for ashes, just orange flavored vodka filled to the rim of my cup. At that moment it offered no answers, just the promise to forget for a little while.
I am the prodigal daughter
Lost in a world full of people
Hidden among the high grass
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