sidetracked.

The silence pierced by the whistle,
and I know its coming fast,
that eighty mile an hour freighter
speeding down the tracks

And here I stand in the tunnel
in the dark where I can't see
that the only light I'm finding
is the train speeding at me

Won't somebody save me.
pull me out of dangers path,
I'm frozen, fear has rooted me
onto these steel tracks
this is the end of me

I try to move my feet
but my breath has left my lungs
And the seconds are suspended
as the train so swiftly comes

The metal nails screaming
and the shaking rocks my faith
When my limbs regain their movement

its gonna be too late

Won't somebody save me,
pull me out of dangers path
I'm frozen, fear has rooted me
firm on these steel tracks
this is the end of me

Seconds left, my life won't flash
my eyes just paint the pain
and through the window, I can see that
I'm the driver of the train

Nobody can save me,
I have mapped out dangers path
I'm the reason I am rooted here
onto these steel tracks
I ended me...

You're brighter than the headlights
and You're here with me on the tracks
And You hold me so that I don't fear,
and walk me to Your path

Only You can save me
pluck me out of dangers path,
Your love saved me from destruction
and got me set on track
You see the end of me,
Yeah, You pull me back

little black box under my bed.

I don't remember the first time it happened. I do know though, that the choices I made after would follow me for the rest of my life, and cause me to fall far as believed possible from grace.

It started so innocently. But then again, doesn't it always? You do it because it feels good and nothing else. Nobody told me what I was doing, just that it was wrong. Because of this, I learned to hide it, but never to control it, because why should I control a reasonless sin?

By the time I found out there was a reason, it was too late. It had become a habit, a sinful addiction that was insurmountable to overcome. And I knew it was wrong, so I tried to quit right away. Cold turkey. Cut it right out. Never let it consume me again.
But I failed.
And not once, no, instead of becoming better, it was getting worse. It controlled me, and I let it.

In order to mask my shame of failure and weakness, I began to justify it. I ignored the reasons why I shouldn't do it, and instead deceived myself into thinking that I wasn't so bad, other people did it, it was normal. But my excuses never convinced me completely, for I knew inside how disgusting I was.

It became my secret. Tucked away in a little black box, under my bed where I would know right where to find it. Too often, the lid would be opened, the contents used, and then nicely replaced when I was finished so nobody would know. It remained hidden, and my guilt with it. It was so easy to pretend when I could separate it.

I do not say addiction lightly. The contents of my little black box were used often. I don't even know why, only that it was something I had to do, because if I didn't, I was thinking about doing it. And as my addiction grew, so did my shame, and so did the reason for hiding it.

Nobody knew about my little black box, and I made sure it stayed that way. I pushed it farther and farther towards the wall when company came, and then reached even farther under the bed for it when I wanted to use it. I was consumed. I was disgusting. I was filled with shame. And I was most of all, utterly alone.

Or so I thought. One day, over a bathroom sink and a library book, I was confronted. I was cornered and trapped out of a careless slip of the tongue. I was embarrassed and so very ashamed. How could I ever be seen the same way? Once my little black box was opened, I would be seen for what I truly was. Disgusting.

But I wasn't. Instead, I was told that I wasn't alone, that the struggle was not just mine. I was not, as I had thought, the only one. This surprised me and overwhelmed me, for that knowledge alone was freeing. I was still full of shame and guilt, but I was not alone.

My addiction had choked me. It had separated me from the One that I needed the most. But I was able to start seeing that I was not disgusting. I was loved. Loved despite my weakness to temptation and my bitter struggle. Loved even though I continually opened the little black box.

This was my struggle. This IS my struggle. But maybe, just maybe by opening that little black box wide, I will be free of whats inside... forever.

the Great Artist

I met Him in the art gallery, awed by the paintings depicting the stories of other lives, lives that were surely more vibrant and kept under more careful control then my own. He wanted to take my life and turn it into a masterpiece, but I was unconvinced. My life was full of ugliness, nothing that could be painted into anything special. He took my hand and spoke of vivid colors and brilliant strokes, and I was intrigued, for surely the mess of my life could never amount to what He imagined in His mind.

He assured me it could, but on one condition.

"Let me have the canvas."

Instantly afraid, I held my canvas tighter to my chest and shook my head fiercely. "Anything but that!" I begged, for my canvas was painted with shame, guilt, fear, and failure. I couldn't let Him see! He would be disgusted, and give me up as a hopeless case. I so longed to be made beautiful.

"I cannot create My masterpiece without you giving up the canvas" He said.

I was afraid of that.

"But...please! I have seen your work..."I cried. "These halls are filled with Your art! You don't need THIS canvas."

He motioned to the walls. "All these... these came from the ones who gave up their canvas."

I looked to the walls again, and averting my gaze slowly handed Him what I had been keeping so close. I winced, expecting to hear His disproval and disgust echo in the halls before sending me away.

It didn't come.

I looked up timidly, and saw Him at work already, working with a steady hand to sand off the mess that was there. He was gentle enough for me to sense His care, and yet firm enough to make sure the gunk did not return.

Sanding off the first parts were easy, for the guilt had gathered so high it raised off the page. My shame was rubbed down with tender hands that were not disgusted, but loving and eager to create.

The hard part came when He got close to the canvas, to the parts where the ugly paint clung the hardest. He began to scrape it away, and this time it hurt.

"What are you doing?" I cried. He looked at me with tears in His eyes and whispered "I know, but hold tight to me and I will bear your pain." I grasped His hand and squeezed hard, and He cried. His teardrops hit the page and dissolved the paint away until there was no trace of failure, and He was left with a blank canvas.

I watched him dip his brush into the paint, and began His strokes. Each brush was soft and purposeful, and His hand remained steady. Colors flashed across the page, blending vibrantly into a picture I had not known was possible. Then he dipped His brush into the black...

"Wait... don't do that!" I cried. "You're going to wreck it! Here... let me do it MY way." And so, I grabbed the brush from His capable hands.

At first, it looked alright, and I was happy with my work. "This isn't so hard..." I said smugly, as I painted happily away. I continued on in this manner until, not as careful as He had been, I slipped and the brush left a long, ugly stroke.

"I didn't want this to happen!" I cried. "I can't do this on my own... please... take it."

I gave Him back the brush, and He worked silently, ever softly, incorporating my ugly stroke and turning it into a part of the picture. When He finished with it, it was more beautiful than it had been before. And so happily, I continued to let Him work.

Stroke after stroke. Color after color. Each line sure and slow. I got antsy watching. "Is it finished yet?" I asked impatiently. "Why is it taking so long?"

He replied, "Masterpieces do not happen overnight. Wait, and I promise you it will be worth it."

Hours passed, then days, then weeks, then months, then years, until finally He finished.

Wearily, I asked to see what He had done.

Smiling, He turned the canvas around. In it, I saw the places where I had tried to take over. I saw traces of the places I had hurried Him, but yet He remained steady in His work. But more than anything, I saw beauty.

The Great Artist held me close, and said "You are finished." as I breathed my last breath.