Sushi

Sometimes reality is so raw, so unyielding, so un-sugar-coat-able that I’m afraid to write about it. To lay everything out there, naked in the hot sunlight, is frightening. Reality will get a sunburn, blister, and peel, leaving me even more tender and sensitive.

Looking at me you would think I was successful, and you would be right! Why is it that in the midst of all this success, all this positive change, all these accolades of achievement, I am suddenly so very lost?

I don’t feel like I’ve earned any of this. Yes, I’ve worked hard, sacrificed my time and energy, pinched pennies, saved for years, pulled myself up by my proverbial boot straps. I’ve taken these lemons and I’ve made lemon cake! But I’ve also hurt people along the way. I’ve torn my dignity to shreds, abandoned faith and hope, stepped on fingers and toes, refused to speak when my words could have mended so many broken relationships. Because I was afraid. So very afraid. The fear is still there… my ever-present friend, but I have a choice. My choice is to move on anyway, to lift my head and speak the truth in love. Because perfect love casts out fear.

Life is about relationships, and the fact is, people will hurt me, abandon me, lie to me, cheat on me, ignore me, hate me, talk about me behind my back, seek revenge, refuse to forgive me, mock me, hurt my feelings... Because people are people.

I have the opportunity every day to observe people who think no one can see them. People catch my eye through my three giant glass windows and one heavy glass door. I watch people who laugh at each other, people who fight with each other, people who are alone, people who spoil their children, people who shout at their children, people without children, people who are tired, people who work hard, people who are lazy, people who don’t care what they look like, people who care a little too much.

All of these people have one thing in common… they are people. They feel just like I do. They smile and laugh. They get sad and cry. They all have a story, a story they may want to tell the world, or a story they would prefer to hide so deeply inside that not even they have to admit that it exists.

I watch these people as a quiet, unknown observer, and they teach me something, a lesson written in posture, expression and the strain of skin over white knuckles against the steering wheel…

...we are all the same.

So this is my voice. I’ve screamed at God for so long that my voice is raw and unlovely, but it is mine. I am not fearless, and I know so many people who are far better equipped at word crafting. All I can possibly hope for is to be real.