Stitches Sewn Into Scar.

It's writers club tonight. And I am out of writing. I am learning things about myself, and about myself as a writer. If I am not in the Word, or reading a book, I am lacking. I have nothing to write about. There are no thoughts, little movement of what the Spirit is teaching me.

So instead, I sit here in my own self-perception... trying to find or dig up something to think about, something to write about...

There was a book on grief, on art; tonight I recall it, a warning against dwelling in the dark, the night, to write, to art. Its words trickled back to me, a reminder as I read back tonight through old things I had written, but never "published." Stored away in private safe keeping, locked underneath the "Documents" file, subtly forgotten.

And what I found there, was pain. Agony. Cursing anger. Deep, the darkest of wounds, bleeding reds so rich and scarlet that stains seemed to reveal against the ink of paper. I found so much hurt, gnarled grief, bitter anger... I stopped. Closed the files and stored them again with quick closer. Those first two years, especially that middle year of the two drew more memory than I would ever desire to recover. Even 1% of it. I am surprised, but ever-so-thankful, at how much I have removed, the Lord has removed, from my mind and heart... like a suture...

Like time restored.

And I remember, am reminded, of how much I am thankful. Thankful that the Lord created Charlotte as my cacoon. That the Lord has created in me a new heart. That the Lord has freed me of the wounds the memories, running so deep, now stitches sewn into scar.

And so I am thankful, for the reminder of the words of the book, remarking that digging up dark places for writing for the art is tender, is to avoid.

So instead, I sit here and write, thankful. Thankful that that tenderness is there, yet so is claim over time and heart and mind and memory. That scar remains, yet scab and scarlet soothed away. Thankful that time works like restoration, like love in the remains.