Inside the box I place before my GOD there are myriads of fossilized feelings.
I am afraid to open the box.
I am afraid for HIM to open my box.
When I dumped all the mess of my life into this handy container, I was thankful that the stank could be covered with a stone lid. I was thankful that the bloody mess was not seeping out of the carved stone.
I opened my box infrequently; but every time I had the need to shove more of me into its midst; I found there was still room at the top.
I am sure that the last time I shoved that wretched waste inside… the box was filled to the top. There was no room for more of me: there was no room for more putrid heart content. There was NO room at the top.
What happened?
Where is the Awful I so awkwardly gave, GOD?
Why isn’t she still in there?
What has HE done with me?
“Jana, look,” I hear Him say.
Lord, I can’t bear to see her, I reply.
“Jana, look.”
I peer into the box.
“LORD. What happened to me?”
“That,” He replied, “is what you see.”
Strangely, there is a Crystallized, beautifulness in the bright light of HE.
That. That, is what happened to me.
There is room in your box.