The Mountain & the Island and Everything in Between

I know a girl who was torn in half by two warring mountains.

They raged and crashed in hurtful pain reminiscent of the Fall. In fact, the smell of

Eden’s corpse was still strong in the nostrils of any and all present.

Her tears pooled around her feet like the logs of a witch burning and she clutched her stomach as if it’s contents were threatening to spill out and reveal her pain.

And she longed for safety and love like a listless ship longs for lashings to an anchor.

She screams quietly into her pillow to muffle the sound so as to not start another round of MMA between the smoldering, dormant, volcanos down the hall that drifted tectonically away from one another until finally they split the shared ground at their feet and drifted away.

She found herself adrift. She found herself adrift. So adrift she found herself!

So she grew up! And every day she would set sail for a horizontal shore that she could just see over the horizon floor. Over there! An Island! Maybe home, maybe not.

I see her ship near the edge of the island and wonder if the sound of it’s impacting would sound anything like her heart reacting to the sight of the lonely guy she laid down with every night for warmth and “love.”

Or if it would make the sound of the mountains when they raged over her cowering half moon posture.

I don’t know.

But when the morning sun rises from her rest so does she and she embarks across the shimmering sea to see what she can see. Not much.

Turns out, all she saw were islands of people proclaiming that they had found the answers to us.

They had scuttled their souls for the bloodied soil of opioid trees and heroin dust - For false love and broken trust - For tiny demi-god’s who told them they what they MUST eat this and consume that -For angry heads talking like talking heads telling them to return tit for tat.

Eye for an eye. Needles, makeup cases, and razor blades are all she can see now-a-days and she wonders if anyone can find anything in her chest cavity worth pursuing.

She is no different than us, Right? We’re all slow, sad ships sailing a somber sea in search of our resting shore line where to dock our hearts.

Where can we dock our hearts when all friendly ports seem to be full? Where can ships made from driftwood and scotch tape be made to feel...whole?

Well let me tell you of an island I have only heard mention of in fairy tales and dusty tomes. It is a far green country where the sun never ceases to caress the creases our faces, yet cools our backs with ocean breezes. The soft grass shall brush our legs as the son welcomes us home to our prodigal seat.

I don’t know what happened to the girl in this story, but I know the last I saw her, her prow set on a course to this island and I couldn’t help but notice that her face held a bit of a smile.

Perhaps she’ll find rest there. Perhaps she’ll find a true love and not a filthy fraud. Perhaps she’ll be loved despite her perceived flaws. Perhaps the one who formed the seas she sails now across can mend her sails and meet her needs as He did for you and I on the day that He said it is finished.

It is good and it is finished.