“The world is satisfied with words, few care to dive beneath the surface.” – Blaise Pascal
We’re not so different, you and I. Cut from the same cloth—made in His image—the flesh and blood garment we wear fits, folds, frays the same. It’s a tight fit, I admit, but we are woven together, closer than some are comfortable with. Perhaps many. Our fragile eggshells of an exterior that brings with it physical identity also shields us from our sameness. But it’s more than a distant uniformity that wraps us in organs and insists on a fabric that breathes. If we scratched the surface of someone standing next to us, we might unravel the riddle: that they harbor the same inextinguishable flame that burns passionately within ourselves.
We are made of the same stuff. A little skin and bones, some muscle, legs, arms, eyes, teeth, a heart, with nerves and feelings and lots of faults. And love. Can’t forget the love. Everybody loves—something or someone. So similar in composition are we, yet far enough apart to protect the illusion of great separation. We say and do things that distance us while hoping to find home within someone, somewhere. Anywhere.
As a product of the secular world, but by grace finding the Way out, I’ve experienced both sides of the supernatural equator—the spiritual spectrum of dark and light—and I can say without apology that both day and night are necessary. Some days I feel as if the earth has suddenly drifted out of the Son’s view. God’s healing rays doused by earthly ignorance or my own lack of diligence. And the shade is cold. Too cold. But I’ve also been gifted evenings of pure prayer where He met me in a deep shadow—face down, crying like a child—and answered me there.
Let’s not concern ourselves so much with the maze of intricate puzzle pieces belonging to Another, but hold our own jigsaw silhouette thoughtfully, ready and willing to place it as guided by the hand of One who sees the entire picture from spacious Omnipotent knowing. Let’s stop getting under each other’s skin and try putting yourself in it. What does it feel like? How does it fit? Are you getting my drift?
As artists, writers, painters, poets, it’s a clinic in character. Realize that underneath the pigment and politics, we’re all the same. The origin of us is uniformly fastened to One glorious source of splendor and purpose. With paths varying slightly, our brief life here and our end fixed and final, we all deserve a little compassion for the journey. And before we’re abruptly taken from the body without warning, or gently lifted out in a slow embrace within gentle arms of darling heartache, I pray we take care to dig deep into the hearts of our fellow travelers.
Find it in you to speak kindly of our resemblances rather than refuse to believe the depth of the heavenly Father’s reach. We all have fear—of others and ourselves. We all bleed red. And we’re made of the same immaculate material.
Just below the surface.
Bleeding In Black and White 