Sunset“You make beautiful things.”

A few weeks ago I found myself starring west out of an unfamiliar window that some people called my home. It was new. It was weird. It was nothing like I’d thought it would be. As tears began to pool in the corners of my eyes, I mourned the story I had pre-written for this part of my life. I mourned… sitting on cold pavement as the sky blazed orange. I mourned the broken promises, now fictitious plans, and all the things I held so close to my recently shattered heart.

“You make beautiful things out of dust.”

That’s the funny thing about new beginnings: I’m not sure anyone actually wants them until they are thrust upon them and they have no choice. I’d found myself at the starting line of a new beginning looking back at where I was, longing for any opportunity to return. There was acceptance in the past. There was fun and laughter. There was something more real and honest than anything I’d experienced before. At this new beginning there is nothing but stark silence as the rain falls. There are no incoming words to soothe my broken soul. There are no promises of future restoration. There is nothing but me, the cold pavement, and the sky begging to become night.

“All this pain. I wonder if I’ll ever find my way.”

To quote Ben Folds, “hope is a bastard, a liar, a cheat, a tease.” She stands just outside your reach, whispering promises that may never come. She creeps up in the depths of your soul, trying to heal the wounded parts against your will. She ploys you late at night with phrases like, “hold on”, “don’t give up”, “you’ll be ok”. She shows herself in the faces of those who love you as they try to take your pain away. She tries to steer your mind away from the happy memories, sweet smiles, and mountaintop moments. She tries to remind you that things weren’t that great. That you were in a bad place. That you weren’t cared for. That you weren’t appreciated the way you should be. She stands just out of reach painting a picture of what could be, but offers no help to draw you closer to her. She shows herself in rainy sunsets, alone on the pavement, shaking with a sadness you can’t contain. She whispers the truth… upsetting, outrageous, anger-inducing truth.

“He makes beautiful things out of us.”

The sun blazed orange and flashed to breath-taking pink. My chest ached from the cavern that appeared within. No kind words from friends could reduce the pain. No gentle smiles or strong embraces could close the hole shouting its presence. I was dust. I was less than dust. I was the mess swept under the rug that breaks down and finds its home in the land between existing and not.

“You make beautiful things out of dust.”

Hope lingers near. She lingers in every sunset I watch from my new “home”. She declares herself each morning in my review mirror as she illuminates the brilliant fall colors while I hold back pre-work tears. She exudes her warmth in the embrace of a friend who knows the only thing they can do is hold you while you shake. She stands vigil by my side as I fight the thoughts trying to drag me further into the pit I fought so hard to save myself from.

Someone once told me that “there is no hope”. Little did he know she was blazing right behind him, gentle arms outstretched, calling me towards the truth that beautiful things can be made out of dust, we just have to be made into that dust first.