ink full of it is well

I hang up clothes to dry and sit down at desk to write. Write because what else does one do when the day has given them so much---too much?

I write because my head is full and without the pen to paper I am afraid it might explode. And these writings are full of questions left unanswered; a list of Why's because my life hasn't exactly turned out how I thought it would and I am confused at how easy others seem to have it.

And the pen is full of bitter ink, full of angry ink, full of ungrateful ink because why didn't God give me perfect hair or more friends or greater intelligence? And why didn't God make college an easy transition for me? Why has each semester thus far been different for me? At a different school, different place, different town?

The list goes on because I have a lot of frustration bottled up and somehow, someway, it must come out.

But then she calls and I answer and her life is in shambles and how can I be ungrateful when I have roof over head, food in belly, friend on the other end of the phone, God calling me beloved? And how can I write incessantly of how horrible my life is when she is a mess and I have never known such heartbreak and my life is full of so much good?

And her sobs lessen and her heart is encouraged by her Jesus and she laughs on the other line and says "It is well" and I am left with my own hypocritical words to eat because my life has always screamed "It is well as long as I have all I want and need and could desire."

And I don't scribble out the bitter story on the paper, because it is a part of my ungrateful heart and I want to remember who I was, but I take out gold marker and over all the syllables of discontentment I write "IT IS WELL WITH MY SOUL" and maybe I won't always feel it but my Maker's love will strengthen me when emotion and truth do not coincide.

image: source