Quiet

Quiet. What is quiet but what is not heard? But in my soul, quiet has a voice, has a sound. It sounds like contentment, love, forgiveness, and mercy at 10 decibals beyond what can be heard by any ear. Quiet sounds like the russle of Jesus robes as He wraps His arms around me on a night when sleep is hard to come by and hope seems like a distant memory that I hope will be once more--but not tonight. Quiet eases itself around a past chocked out by the grace of God. Quiet needs no TV or music blaringly drowning out the sounds of regret, remore, hate, fear, and down-wrong-not-right rebelliousness.

Quiet is a tear gliding down an all too familiar trail on my face--warm, wet, and tasting of salt as it steals for the base of parted lips. I turned and crawled, waddled, walked, ran, leapt towards Jesus' awaiting arms and found the way home. Quiet is allowing myself the freedom at last to be who God intended me to be. Not so quiet, an artist, eccentric by nature, excitable, and beautifully bold. Given the keys of life, I reclaimed what a hard life stole from me and allowed God to restore what the locusts had eaten.

Quiet. Home is quiet and the boogieman is dead.