Faith. Nothing pretty about it.


I'm sure sometimes faith is beautiful, harmonious, euphoric. That just isn’t my experience. Faith is waking up on the bathroom floor, body tense, seizing uncontrollably from withdrawals all the while thumbing through ways to get my hands on a little more. One more touch. One more taste. Just one. Faith is the churning in your gut as it offers up everything it’s been given the last few days. What a sweet offering it is. Faith is coming down, falling from the high with no parachute. Faith comes in times of desperation. It isn’t pretty or perfect, at least not for me. It’s knowing how you got here and wincing as you’re embraced by a lifetime of mistakes. It’s one shallow breath after another. In my darkest hour I clutch a cross pendant to my chest, and in this moment, faith is knowing that I’m still someone’s chosen daughter. I’m still washed in the blood, bathed in the light. I am his and he is mine. Faith. Nothing pretty about it. But nothing but beauty surrounds it.


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