Look past the twirling locks of honey-colored hair, framing yet hiding the deep lines on my face. Look past my ankle-length skirt to see the shame deep within. Look past the frumpy shirt with enough material to pinch on both sides of my chest, and sees the scars underneath. See the scrapes, cuts, and bruises that most never dare to see. They desire only to see the pantyhose with three-quarter sleeves, rather than the wound bandages underneath. They can’t see the deep grooves on my arms, the ones deformed from healing incorrectly, and the others still fresh from today.
Does God see my hurt or does He only see that I’m not pouring into the Bible day by day? Does He see the blood oozing out or does He only care that I haven’t prayed? Does He see past the modesty and shame-facedness to actually see my shame? Does He see that I’m aching and broken? Does He see that I’m battered and bruised?
Does He see that it’s not that I want nothing to do with Him, but that I’m not sure how to trust again? I’m shattered at the core and have yet to figure out how to begin the repair.
