kyndallrae

creating me [using words]

Toddler Legs in the Race to Freedom

(This is for Glennon, and for myself)

The truth is supposed to set us free. What I want to know is why being set free can hurt like heck?

I am starting to feel scared of the truth, for the way it burns. Truth, when hidden, causes ulcers (I have discovered). Truth, when released . . . well, I am still finding that out, I just know it is scary and searing and jarring. Like everything you propped yourself up with is now knocked away and you have to stand on your own two feet, but you have toddler legs that wobble and fail you. This just doesn’t seem fair at all: that you, beautiful you, with all your important jobs and all your serious efforts would wake up one day with toddler legs of all things and then discover the marathon starts today and you haven’t even trained. You can’t even run for goodness sake, what with these legs, but the race begins anyhow, without your consent.

Maybe freedom isn’t free and you will move so slowly it will hurt you as you toddle and trip your way to the first mile marker. But somewhere along the way you learn new skills, you find your own strength, you pick up speed. Someday you run, with the wind in your hair and the world both at your back and before you. It is such a surprise to discover just how many times in one life you can come back alive.

Being awake and alive is so much more painful that staying asleep, but we keep choosing to wake up and live. And our friends cheer us on from the sidelines.

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One thought on “Toddler Legs in the Race to Freedom

  1. After writing this post, I read Barbara Brown Taylor’s sermon, “Striving with God” the same afternoon, which of course, said everything better than me. Example: “God is in the business of raising the dead, not all of whom are willing. They have perhaps witnessed the revival of a corpse . . . The have smelled the fear in the air, heard the choked return of breath, like a drowned thing coming up for air. They would just as soon stay dead, at least until someone can arrange a less painful way of coming back to life. Here is how I would like it, please: a soft kiss on the lips by someone who smells of tea roses, a gentle rubbing of my hands and feet until the feeling comes back, then a warm bath, a soft robe, and simple meal by candlelight. No talk. Just music. An oboe, if it can be arranged . . .” (from Gospel Medicine, 110)

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