Stench of Me
I can sometimes smell a scent of her. I welcome it even. I let it wash over me for just a moment, like an addict pressing their lips to the bottle again.
The versions of who I was and wasn’t play out in the cinema behind my eyes.
I watch back the years I begged on my knees for better. A better bank account, better clothes, better car, better clients, better home, better relationships, a better body, a better man, and a better life—but never a better me.
Now, when I listen with THESE ears, I hear clearly. A whisper from God always telling me, “Ask me to help make you better.”
I was never asking to be better; I was demanding better be made all around me instead. How can the bones be rotting and still care for the beauty of blessings? How could the smell I was drenched in keep any of the goodness on my wish lists? I was oozing pain and bleeding out on everything. I was not praying to be made better but for God to plant fragrant flowers around the stench of me.
