To be real.

I can never seem to find the words to what I am thinking. I mean, they are all there in my head. So eloquently explaining my point or caressing their way around my heart making me feel so warm and cozy. But when I try to write them or even worse, say them, they just don't come.

My life is sometimes.....a loss for words. If you were to stand on your tiptoes and look through the window, the one with the curtains blowing in the wind and the flowers on the pane, the window of my life, you would think that from the outside it looked clean and orderly, pretty and thoughtful. A closer look inside would reveal a parlor, where all my guest come, a place where everything has it's place. All the best books were displayed on a shelf. My handy-work (not that I have any) draped across the sofa, and a plate of cookies (or maybe a basket of my rolls) on the coffee table. Yes, it makes quite a good first impression. It has all the right charms and the lighting, along with peaceful piano music playing the background is controlled for just the right mood. Words are taped on the walls on crisp white paper. Words that seem so nice they could almost be flattery. Words that you're sure have to be sincere because, well, this parlor couldn't hold anything but perfection.

Then, a door opens and lets you peer into another room, the plain and ordinary "family" room of my life. It's decorated tastefully, just in case anyone were to look in, but it lacks a certain charm that my parlor had, a certain "willingness" to please. a certain something. You can tell that I'm more comfortable in this room. Letting my guard down, I leave things lying around. Less impressive books strewn across the table, music playing that isn't exactly "uplifting", and some crumbs of some junk food or another kicked to the side of the floor. I leave the light a tad darker in this room, so as not to expose all of the dusty nooks and crannies, because once again, someone like you might look in. The words taped along the wall here are far less flattering and far more impatient. They are written in hasty handwriting on dingy scraps of post-its and though some of them are kind most of them make you feel uncomfortable that you are looking in.

You are about to walk away from my window, thinking there is nothing left to see, when another door opens and by stretching on up to your highest height possible you can just make out what must be my bedroom.

My private room. The one that hardly anyone goes in. The room where I'm alone.

This room, is a mess. Sheets and bedding are thrown across the bed haphazardly, it hasn't been made for days. The curtains are drawn and it's almost pitch black except for a tiny lamp that is on my nightstand. You can't make out what music is playing, not because its so covered up by the sound of the classical in the parlor, and the "other" in the family room, but because its on my ipod, so that no one hears it but me.

Its my music, I love it, I'm attached to it, so it stays in my room. on my ipod. Its not bad, its just not something I would share with friends. You notice stacks and stacks of book, and a bible. The books that look interesting, things like Jane Austen and Charles Dickens, you can tell are well read but placed on a shelf. The books lying open are magazines on "the latest". Things that help me to look better. My bible? You can't tell for sure but you think it might have been read in the last few days, its on the top of the nightstand at least. The floor is a mess of clothes and shoes, and cups and plates are scattered on every free surface. There are words taped all over this room as well, but the same words have been re-wrote so many times that they are almost inaudible. You squint and cup your hands to the glass, trying to just make out one....You realize that these words are things I've said over and over in my thoughts, under my breath, by my looks, and even out loud. and you can't believe that the same person who welcomes people into the nice and pretty parlor, lives and acts in the way of this bedroom. It just doesn't seem possible.

All of a sudden you hear a noise and realize what you've been doing, peaking into my life, and you walk away......and that's it. You don't have any reason to be happy or move forward with a vigilance to "do better". You don't walk away with any encouragement. You really just found that, like most people in the world, I'm fake. I put on a good show for the first, second, and third impression. But after that? you're family, so you get treated like family, which isn't better. It's slightly worse. and if you're really special, I let you into my bedroom, because its just such a nice place, right?

.....

Oh, how I long for my heart, my "house" to be so pleasing to God so that no matter who looked in or who went by or listened in or who heard what I said would be encouraged. Not for my good name or my praise but for HIS. Right now, the above picture of a house is me. and I so want to be real and true for HIM. I want to display Christ. Why should my personal room be the darkest and most secretive? Why shouldn't it be the one you look in first? the one with the open window and the breeze blowing in? The one that is neat and tidy and encourages you with the nice words and uplifting songs? Why do we have to be fake?? Why can't the love of Christ in me flow forth out into everything I do and touch and see and hear and smell???

Oh, Lord, that you would make me into this kind of person. For your praise and not mine. For your good name and not mine. For your glory and not mine.

                                                                                    ...........

                                                                     Written by my daughter, Taylor.