Melancholy. I like the way it sounds. The word itself rolls off the tongue like melted butter on a dinner roll. Though the word doesn't conjure up images butterflies and rainbows, melancholy is an address I frequent when the winter slogs by. These are the days I kick my own butt. Foolish, foolish girl. I was told today that God inflicts wounds on us so he may heal us, fully and restoratively. Some days I am content with my amputations, somedays I feel the ghost pains associated with my losses. I have tried to wiggle toes that are no longer attached. I have cried over lost opportunities and tried to scratch my head is disbelief over their passing only to realize I have no arm to lift. So I wait. Restore my body and soul, precious God, so I may mount up like an eagle, whole and new so I may swoop upon the valley of Melancholy, dipping and gliding, over and under. I am happy to visit for an afternoon, but don't want to look down for more than an hour or two...
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