shattered.

After 2 hours and 27 minutes of running, the hot water of an Epsom salt bath was exactly what my hips and knees needed. After all that forward motion, after all the hiding from my own mind that often tells me I can't do it, the rest was what I needed. The chance to sit and reflect and remember why I continue to fight to run. Run one more foot, one more mile, one more race. As I washed my face the salt of long ago dried sweat poured into my mouth and I couldn't help but think right back to the masks we wear. This layer of sweat. That layer of make-up. The perfectly curled hair and the perfectly paired outfit. The things that can so easily be mistaken for who I am if I let them.

Who am I? Do we all ask ourselves this question or do some of us just have the pleasure of knowing in full confidence?

I think that I keep coming back to this theme of who I am and the masks I wear over and over again because I am looking at the wrong solution to the problem of who I am. There is no me without a Savior who holds my world in his hands. In order to know who I am, I must first understand who he is. Last night I had to admit to myself, and to others, that I am just mad at God. I cannot see clearly the character of God and therefore, I cannot clearly see the characteristics of myself.

Over the last 5 months my identity has been shattered. And beyond my doing, I have been put back together piece by piece. In the rebuilding, I have lost sight of who I was before. In my case some of the shattering was just the final splintering of deep cracks. Brokenness that could only turn into the beauty in the complete breaking. As I've gathered together the shattered pieces and reconciled them to each other I have gotten stronger and a whole new me has been formed.

Recently it has been clear that the new me no longer fits into the old life. And in this growth and new life, I have become a woman who no longer pretends. The more I identify my masks the more I find myself sickened by them. The mask that tells me I must stay just doesn't fit anymore and will need to be washed off just like the dried sweat yesterday afternoon. Each day I sit in a place where there is a suitcase sitting next to my bedroom door. I tell myself just to make it one more day. The suitcase can sit empty. But it is there. I know what I need. I know what my heart longs for. It is 2,330 miles away, in a little house that I used to call home, with a family that is perhaps more complicated than my situation here but that holds me together and keeps me alive like the beating of my own heart.

Here is what I've learned in this fresh wave of brokenness: I cannot fit into someone else's mold for me. I cannot make my plans based on anything besides what is best for my family. For Porter and I.

This is new life. New life that was grown out of a love that ended. Love never fails, even when it's messy and brutal. Love grew me and stretched me and wrecked me. Even today as my legs are sore and my stomach hurts from yesterday's stretching of my physical capabilities, I know whatever step I take next is going to leave me emotionally sore.

I am here. I am willing to answer the call of whatever that looks like.

I am here. I am willing to listen for the Spirit to prompt me on what my next step of forward motion will look like.

I am here. I am ready to see what the shape of a newly constructed me looks like.