But, comfort and hate dance in unison on this side of the door. It's the writhing, sickness that has plagued for a decade. It's every day that my mind says that life will never be pretty again. That it's always going to be sticky.
Sticky, like a fresh-coat of partially dried, blue paint.
I want God to open the door. To physically come down, scoop up my hurting body, and walk me through to safety. To plant me on His side of the door, where sickness doesn't live and tears don't stain faces. To tell me that I won't hurt anymore.
There is movement on the other side of the door.
People moving with ease through this life.
How do you forget pain that is so tangible? So in your face every day? The type of pain that strangles and chokes out life?
You run your fingers down the streaked, blue paint and you wait. You wait for Christ to come and dry the streaks from your cheeks.
On this side of the door, miracles still happen.
On this side of the door, perseverance blossoms into peace in the strangest ways.
On this side of the door, Jesus comes down, scoops up our hurting bodies, and walks with us through the fire.