Faith in the midst of hardship

The hardest thing about faith is the ability to hold on to something that is not tangible. To believe that, no matter what my eyes see, God is right beside me.

Since we closed the restaurant, we have lived by faith. Trusting God, that no matter what our circumstances look like, He will always provide. I have cried and cussed and laughed and been seriously depressed in the process. I am not one who looks at the possibility of being homeless, or carless or foodless and says, "Praise the Lord!"

I am one who says, "What the F Lord?!?!!?" I don't talk to my God like He is some distant deity, I talk to Him like He is my best friend. Flaws and all, realistic, honest, organic, true me.

I sit here... waiting... waiting for life to take a turn. A financial turn, a job, a home, a car. Still in the same place we were when the restaurant closed. 6 years of hardship... 6 years of lack... 6 years of hoping and believing BY FAITH.

I don't see it. I don't see when it will end, but I believe, BY FAITH in a God who loves me that is soon. It is not easy. Money continues to evade us, cars continue to fall apart on us, and a home continues to be out of reach. I breathe... my heart rate rises, my head pounds. It’s getting old, worn out, tired.

Aren't you, the reader, tired of hearing the same old story about the Beukers? Still without a job or a steady means of income to sustain us? Haven't you questioned our motives, intentions or work ethic, due to the situation we are in? I would, if I were on the other side of this.

God always provides. He doesn't fail us. But it doesn't make the reality any easier. It doesn't make waiting until the final hour any better. I still cry when we don't get the job applied for. I still cuss when the car doesn't work and we have no money to fix it. I still get depressed when I don't know how we are going to feed our kids. I don't share it as much. I don't want to be "that person." You know the ones. The ones who always need something, who are always down on their luck. I want to be the person that is always helping, always giving, always encouraging.

I wrote a blog when my mom was dying called, “Jesus wept.” It was about the notion that Jesus cried when he heard that Lazarus died, EVEN THOUGH, even though he knew he was going to raise him from the dead. The emotion of a friend dying was so great, that even the Son of God, who knows the beginning from the end, let out an emotional burst of tears.

That is where I am today. EVEN THOUGH I know my God will provide, THROUGH FAITH, the emotion behind the reality burst out of me with great intensity. I am ready for this season of my life to be over. I realized the other day, that half of Elijah’s schooling years have been hardship. HALF! It started his 6^th grade year and now he is in 12^th, getting ready to graduate. It’s pretty much all my other two kids know. They were too little to remember the debt free, stay at home homeschooling mom. They mostly remember loss and lack.

That overwhelms my emotions, and pours out of me. No matter how hard we have tried, there has not been much respite. It has been a constant pounding of the waves of financial hardship. My legs shake from the weariness of trying to stand in the pounding. My body shakes from the cold water that just pushed me over and tossed me around.

We, Bill and I, made a decision. We need to be in a place where he can work, where there are opportunities for employment in his field. So our eyes are including areas that are not in the Central Valley. Fresno, is our home. It has been the city we have chosen to raise our kids. Twelve years we have lived here. We are faced with the certainty that without a job, with unemployment benefits gone, living on faith and food stamps, a borrowed car and a rented house going up for sale… we are in the same situation we were when we lost the restaurant…two steps away from being homeless, AGAIN!!!

Have we not learned the lesson? Have we missed something? I am waiting for the moment. You know the moment when you finally make it to the other side. When you can look back and say, “Awe, I did it, I pushed through and overcame.” The Joseph moment. That is what I affectionately refer to. The moment, when, after all the hardship he went to, was finally released from prison and made ruler of all of Egypt, right beneath Pharaoh. Or how about the Job moment. After losing everything, he remained faithful, never turning his back on God, and God restored all that he had lost, 7 times over. Even Job told the Lord to curse the day he was born, because the hardship was so great. I have never done that. I just say, “What the F?!?!?” to Him.

There is only so much you can do, only so much you can say. For me and my family, homelessness and serving God is so much more fulfilling than doing something unethical to make a living. But it doesn’t make it easy. In fact, it is excruciatingly painful and exhausting to keep having FAITH in extreme hardship. In addition to the financial burdens, we have been faced with the death of both of my parents, and the emotional trauma that came with their rejection of me as a person.

Then there are my kids, who I try to protect. They too have experienced hardship. My older son faced racism- yes, my predominately “white” son was discriminated against by his coach, who is African American. It has torn me up. Infuriated me. I have found myself looking to Martin Luther King Jr. for quotes and encouragement. It has made me have even more empathy than I ever did before for ANYONE who has been discriminated against due to the color of their skin or race. More hardship, but for my child. My daughter experienced bullying from her cheer coach. She learned to stand up in the face of hardship and was then punished for it. My sweet little girl, who loves everyone, began to turn cynical and angry. She saw injustice and experienced the ugly side of nepotism. We had to help her process the pain of watching the bully stay and coach and her being asked to leave her team for standing up to her. Even today, she is fighting through it, learning to overcome the abuse of a coach. My middle, highly dyslexic, struggles academically. We had to fight and claw for him to be tested for a 504 plan, so that he would have an equal opportunity to succeed in school. He fights stigma of having a disability with humor and being goofy, but I know it hard for him.

FAITH… more faith… believing the hardship my children have faced will benefit their character. I try to show them the positives of being discriminated against, being bullied and having a disability. Empathy, being an overcomer, loving your enemies… I try to stay positive and let it drive their love for all people. Let is marinate to give them savory faith. The financial hardship gives them a broader spectrum of compassion for others. They are blessed! I mean blessed! My extended family floods them with blessings… Aunts, uncles, grandparents… they shower them with the things we cannot. So they do not lack in material things. They do not live in poverty. They know they are loved, they know they are safe. They know what it is to have plenty and they know what it is to have lack.

So faith remains to be the constant in our lives. The one thing that never changes, the one thing that we can all depend on. Faith, is being sure of what we hope for and certain of what we do not see. That is the story of our life. The story that has carved the deep crevices of character and compassion into our hearts.

I write, to help me process, to help me breathe. My heart rate is slowing down, my blood pressure is lowering. It is my therapy. My way to live. It gives me a canvas in which I can paint the picture of my heart. I stand back and see color. There is no rhyme of reason to the strokes, but it is our life. There is no more room to paint. I hope that soon the Lord will give us a new canvas to paint, a new book to write.

For now, I will go back to my reality, hoping, believing, and living by FAITH. 

Tea Time with God

Sleepless nights are familiar to me. I have never been one who has had a consistent sleep schedule or pattern. When sleep evades me, I try to write. To process the reality of my lack of ZZZZZ’s. As a young child I was usually tormented. Dreams that had me strangled or dying. Waking up in a panic and screaming for help, only not words or sound could leave my throat. Helpless, I learned to fight at a young age. I learned to be vigilant in how and where I slept. If anything, that became my pattern. The ability to wake at the slightest sound.

After I married, I fought long and hard to overcome. I was on my way, until my first child was born. Checking on him several times throughout the night to ensure his safety. It heightened as our second son was born. I would walk the halls, pacing, trying to tire myself, all the while praying for protection for my children. Then, as my baby girl was placed in my arms, I started ten long years of insomnia. Sleeping no more than 4 hours at a time, my fear controlled me and I was a wreck. I gained weight, had panic attacks and suffered from deep depression.

I am a great actress and learned how to hide those unsightly things from those around me, but they soon began to torment me in the silent moments of the night. I had to break free and so, started a long journey to recovery. I had to determine the root, the cause and effect. I had to overcome the fear from the root and then I had to learn to trust the Lord. Trust. Trust my God. A whole new can opened, that took even more years to unpack. More depth of insight to understand. Lots of pain, lots of tears, lots of fear.

So here I am. Twenty years later. Up at 4am, unable to sleep. I am wiped, exhausted, yet I am covered with peace, a gift I never had before. So I welcome the open eyes to explore my Father’s heart. I lay in bed, praying, realizing that fear is not upon me. I pray, for my children, my husband, our finances, our direction. Tossing and turning hoping I will soon be weary from the thoughts and fall back to sleep.

I glance at the time and see 5:17am. Still awake, still tossing. I start to pray some more. I start praying for my oldest. The one who endures great adversity. I dialogue with the Lord about the journey. My heart starts racing in my chest, I start to breathe hard and before I can catch it, rage fills my being. I feel overwhelmed with anger and I want to scream. I start to tell the Lord I am angry, as if He doesn’t know. I share my heart and my frustration, tell him what I desire for my son.

He listens. I can actually hear Him listening. Peace surrounds me, but does not penetrate my heart of rage. “What is it that upsets you the most?” His voice echoes with serene perfection. I ponder. I wonder. I start to bubble up with tears. What is it? Is it the pain my son has had to endure? Is it the discrimination? The unfair treatment? Maybe the curses spoken over my son by unhealed, wounded people? Perhaps the fear that it will break him and I failed. Then it hits me. I sigh, “It’s not that I am angry because he has had to endure trials, I am angry because I do not have control to keep it from happening. No matter how hard I try, no matter what steps I take to protect him, I can’t control the situation.”

“Awww,” I hear the Lord say. “You are upset and filled with rage, because you don’t have control.” Of course I argued with Him that that was not the case. That I was more upset that my son was getting hurt and I couldn’t protect him from that. I usually don’t take what the Lord tells me without some sort of rebuttal. I cannot fathom the notion that His answers to my deepest and most painful issues usually are answered in short, one or two sentence answers. In fact, that make me mad too. Like this answer.

Essentially He is telling me that if I relinquish control, I won’t feel rage. I will not be as frustrated and I will be able to rest in His presence. That resting in Him will secure my peace and peace will help aid in sleeping through the night. I toss and turn some more, frustrated at the concept of control. THAT’S IT! I am getting out of bed! I can’t sleep anyway and now I am fired up.

I walk downstairs and put on the pot of water for tea. I stir inside. Brew with intensity. I hate not being in control. I hate it. I will use that powerful word too. I despise the concept. Yet, and that is a big YET… I know that the choice between God being in control and me being in control is not even a comparison. I know that God’s way, God’s journey for us, God’s purpose is perfect. He sees the beginning and the end, and I just have a little puzzle piece of my life.

The pot starts to hum. I walk over and pour the hot water into my cup. The bag of black tea and spices starts to permeate the clear water and steam rises from the cup. I let it steep. Waiting for all the flavors of the contents to transform the water in to a flavorful beverage. I sweeten with honey and add some mild to soften the bitterness of the essence. I wait for it to cool and begin to write. I can smell the sweet spices and can almost taste them before the liquid ever touches my mouth.

“That is you,” the Lord says to me. “You are the water. I created you, pure and undefiled. I made you flexible and transparent. Able to change with your environment. You can be so cold that you are hard, like ice. Your can be so hot, that your structure changes you and becomes steam. You can be lukewarm and put a bad taste in people’s mouth. I want you to be extremely hot and extremely cold.

 When you are extremely hot, you can receive from me and take on the flavors and aromas of my character, like your tea. When you do, I will add grace and mercy, like the honey to make life a little sweeter. Then I will add some love and joy to soften the flavors, so it will be more palatable for those who think I am too intense of a flavor.

 

 

 

When you are extremely cold, you bring hope to a dying world. You are refreshing and lifesaving. The water is you and the pieces of ice bring a fresh perspective to a cynical world. Cold water calms the overheating of rage and anger and bitterness. It brings life to those who feel like they are dying in the dessert. It holds hope for those who thought all was lost and they would just die, alone in the emptiness of their hearts.

Either way, it is I, who controls the outcome. Not you. I just want you to be. Just be transparent and able to reflect me. Be available to be cold and give refreshment and hope or hot and bring mercy, grace, love and joy.”

A yawn escapes me. I sip on the tea and look at the time. 6:51am. The sun is rising and shedding light on the earth; much like my Lord rises to the occasion and sheds light on my heart. I process, wonder how I can let go of the control I have. Tell the Lord I don’t know how.

I can almost see Him smile when He says, “All you have to do is trust me.”

I take the last sip of my tea, water stained with color. I exhale. The rage has left my heart and the beating of my heart slows down. The scripture I learned as a child enters my mind:

“Trust in the Lord, with ALL your heart, and lean not on your own understanding. In ALL your ways acknowledge him and He will direct your paths.” Proverbs 3:5 & 6

Song of the wanderer

There seems to be a stirring, something murmuring around me. I cannot see it, but know it is there.

My heart pounds so loud, I can feel the motion in my throat. I breathe so hard it hurts. What is it? What is out there?

The undeniable reality of my existence has finally caught up to me. I am here. I have value. My isms are exactly as they should be. I walk around on the earth with the fervor of purpose and am driven to do so. In time. In time, I should say, as I don’t want to go before the Lord. I want to be in His will, in His time, in His atmosphere.

I breathe again. My chest echoes the pain of the deep landscape of my innermost parts. I am isolated, yet comforted; I am uncertain, yet sure. I am chastised, yet delight in it; I am misunderstood, yet authentic. My mind wanders to the place of unquestionable confidence that I am a wanderer.

I spoke of this once before. The mind blowing quote that reshaped the scenery of my life. “Not all who wander are lost.” I am not lost as I wander. I am not looking for answers or a place to rest my head; a place to settle or work. I wander, because that is the path that has been set out for me. I struggle with the notion that this is my life. I once dreamed of buying a house in the country with a barn and veranda and a white picket fence that my kids and grandkids grew up in. However, the truth of my life has been altered by the greatest desire in my heart, “to live by faith.”

There it is again. The stirring. It is making me restless, uncomfortable. I hear it moving closer, with a greater definition of sound. Like a rhythm it moves.

My heart begins to pound. Loud and fierce. It starts to skip beats and move around in pattern. Soon I notice that my heart is synchronizing with the rhythm all the around me. Yet I still do not see what it is. Its moving closer and I can just make out the words:

All that is gold does not glitter,

Not all those who wander are lost;

The old that is strong does not wither,

Deep roots are not reached by the frost.

From the ashes a fire shall be woken,

A light from the shadows shall spring;

Renewed shall be blade that was broken,

The crownless again shall be king.

 

The words, written with such beauty and craftsmanship, floating across the page in timeless wonder, J.R.R. Tolkien. It is my language, the written word, left hanging in the air for interpretation and inspiration.

The song is sung on my heart and I harmonize to the tune as the notes fly through the air.

 

The road to home is long

It cannot be measured in miles

Signs do not tell the way

You hear the directions in a song

Marked by the pain and the trials

A new vision comes today

The path had been there all along

Covered by many large ash piles

As we step in the array

Of all the things that went wrong

A process that proved to be vital

When heart wants to obey

And so we continue on

Even though it will take a while

 

My heart beating to the same drum. I push on. Knowing that there is an end.

I walk, enjoying the ever changing landscape around me, taking in the sites like a tourist visiting for just a while. Knowing that soon I will be home.

I am being deleted...

I am being deleted…

Yes. That is me… I see the bar in front of my face, you know the one that slowly moves to show you that the computer is working. The one that takes FOREVER because your internet sucks. Yes, that is me… I am slowly being deleted.

I noticed it as my mom was dying. I was not valid, not valued, not important. I was just the hard drive of the computer. The thing that makes the machine work, but does not run any programs. I am the one that keeps going and going, even when it seem the computer is off. Yes, that is me. A hard drive that is no longer needed because a new hard drive had been installed.

I am being deleted….

I see that bar is moving faster. It started after my mom died. I did not see my step dad for over a year… he was slowly deleting me from his life. It is not the first time I have been deleted. My father did this to me just five years before.

Yes. That is me… slowly disappearing from a family that existed for 30 years. A family, broken, but filled with forgiveness and second chances. Yet, the reality of my mom gone has changed the DNA of a man who was my dad, so much that he does not even acknowledge my existence.

I am being deleted….

It’s about half way through. He met a woman who will become his wife. I barely saw him the second year after my mom’s death. I met the woman who would be his wife. She is kind and just. She is broken. Yet, she was honest and open and I appreciated that. I thought, perhaps, she would make the bar go backwards, but I was wrong.

Yes. That is me. The oldest daughter who has been forgotten. The one who has kids that were his grandkids that have not seen their grandpa for over a year. He did not go to a single football game to see his two grandsons play together. Not one. Yet I had hope that his new wife would encourage him to support his family. That did not happen.

I am being deleted….

It is three quarters of the way to the end. I am almost gone. He called me to tell me I needed to get all my mom’s stuff or he would give it away. I ran. I packed. I graciously walked around the half packed house that had no remnants of my mother.

Yes. That is me. In the photo albums he is giving me. Yes that is my wedding photo that he no longer wants. Yes, those are all the photos I gave to him and mom, of my kids, from 0 to now. I took it all. Even the stuff that was new. These things will be the items that will keep my mom alive. The memory of a time gone by. There is nothing left in his possession that shows there was ever a life of 30 years with my mother.

I am being deleted….

It’s almost at the end. The bar is slowly moving to the end and I will be no more. His wedding to the new woman is tomorrow. I was not invited. My sister was not invited. My brother was not invited. Only his biological children were. There is no more room in his heart for us. I think he may even be relieved.

Yes, that is me. The girl that is not allowed in his new life. That is my sister, and brother. They are not allowed in. We are being deleted. We are being forgotten. He is only looking forward, and we are not included in the future with his new wife. We are almost gone. He has rid himself of the evidence that we once existed in his life.

I am being deleted…

It will be complete when he says, “I do.” Everyone who carries the same blood is there. We, my sister and brother and I, do not. Our blood is from another man. Our father, who also deleted me and my sister. They are celebrating and starting a new life and we are being left behind.

Yes, that is me. I am the girl who speaks of such matters when others pretend all is well. I do not live that way. I cannot. My heart is bleeding. I lost my mother, then my father. Now I am losing the man who raised me. He was not perfect and hurt me more than he valued me, but he was my dad for 30 years.

I am deleted.

Now, I have no parents. They are all gone. I hear the music playing in the background. It is an orchestra of a slow and sorrowful nature. I close my eyes. Tears well behind the lids.

Yes that is me.

Beukers Family Year in Review

The shadow of Christmas

The shadow of Christmas hangs heavy in my home. The soft glow radiates beauty from the branches of the tree. Like a million stars in the heavens, the intensity of majestic glory shines from the tree. I see the tiny treasures hanging from the bows; each carrying a story of their past. It is a collection of my life, on this tree. Tiny footprints, turned ornament to capture a time gone by too fast. A snowman in a hot air balloon from my childhood tree, holds on to the legacy of a family broken early on. Intricately fashioned pieces from around the world, carefully brought to my home by my husband’s parents of places I may never go. The memorial ornament, carved in glass, of my mother’s birth and death. This year, 4 new ornaments became mine: A moose glass, a funny memory of my childhood of watching National Lampoons Christmas Vacation; a sparkling nativity scene, from Kemah, the place I was for my father’s memorial; a cowboy boot, that will become the memorial ornament for my father; and a carved nativity, simple and fascinating, adorning my tree with the true meaning of Christmas.

It glows in the darkness of my home. I feel its warmth in the very core of my soul. I breathe in the legacy of the tree. Many stories rise up about the tree on Christmas. Christians have scorned the presence of the tree as pagan. I cannot buy into such a fallacy, as the tree is but a creation of the living God and the ornaments a pop-up book of memories for my family. Christmas traditions and celebrations are but an adoration of the coming of the Savior; Emmanuel. In fact, advent is exactly that: the arrival of something important or awaited. Of course there are many pagan holidays and traditions that surround the Christmas season, but that is to be expected, since Satan himself has tried to destroy the very life of our Savior. The tradition is what is created in the heart of man, as a reflection of what is inside. If pride and selfishness is what motivates a tradition, then it can become pagan. However, if love and family and joy and remembrance of our Savior is at the heart of what motivates a tradition, it is hard pressed to call it pagan. So many traditions and celebrations were practiced by the Jews to remember something that the Lord did for them, so they would not forget. The Christmas tree, standing in my living room, is such a memorial. A reminder of times filled with love and family. A time when, even though brokenness ruled my childhood home, the tree brought us together with love and laughter, if only for a moment.

I am reminded of the time when we had no money to buy a tree. I had a 2 foot artificial tree in my collection of decorations and knew this would be all we would have. With three small children, my husband and I carefully crafted the story of our Savior around the humble little tree. Sharing the story of a king who was born in a barn, not a palace; and how we need to be thankful for what we have, no matter how little of a package it comes in. I had planned to have several home parties at my house to earn enough credits to get free things to give as gifts to my family. During one of those parties, a woman I had recently met, inquired of our tiny tree. I shared the story of Christmas and how we were thankful for even the humblest of trees. The next day, my doorbell rang. I opened the door to an intrusion of pine. In came the green beauty, propped up in the corner of my home, lingering a scent of Christmas wonder that was rooted in the heart of love. We decorated that tree with more delight than I we had ever experienced before. Lights adorned the branches, lighting up the bows of majestic splendor. Ornaments carefully placed, the topper given its place of honor on the highest point of the tree. It is only a tree, but it holds in its presence the exquisite grandeur of grace and love.

It is 3 days after Christmas, yet my heart is not ready to let it go. I am not ready to leave the celebration behind me. I want to rest in the legacy of this time of year. I want to relish in the sights and sounds the season has to offer. The house looks so full and stately with all the decorations around. The pine and lights and flowers and candles and nativities frame the walls of my house. Cards sent to me from family and friends are greeting cards of life that share a story of health and prosperity. I do not want to pack up my treasures hanging from the tree and take down the lights that gently glow in the night. I do not want to end the season that brings such joy to my depths. I look at the tree and wonder at its origin. The legends that surround its birth at Christmas are fascinating and intriguing:

 Legends of the Christmas Tree:

Many legends exist about the origin of the Christmas tree. One is the story of Saint Boniface, an English monk who organized the Christian Church in France and Germany. One day, as he traveled about, he came upon a group of pagans gathered around a great oak tree about to sacrifice a child to the god Thor. To stop the sacrifice and save the child's life Boniface felled the tree with one mighty blow of his fist. In its place grew a small fir tree. The saint told the pagan worshipers that the tiny fir was the Tree of Life and stood the eternal life of Christ.

Another legend holds that Martin Luther, a founder of the Protestant faith, was walking through the forest one Christmas Eve. As he walked he was awed by the beauty of millions of stars glimmering through the branches of the evergreen trees. So taken was he by this beautiful sight that he cut a small tree and took it home to his family. To recreate that same starlight beauty he saw in the wood, he placed candles on all its branches.

Yet another legend tells of a poor woodsman who long ago met a lost and hungry child on Christmas Eve. Though very poor himself, the woodsman gave the child food and shelter for the night. The woodsman woke the next morning to find a beautiful glittering tree outside his door. The hungry child was really the Christ Child in disguise. He created the tree to reward the good man for his charity.

 Each legend, capturing humility, love, beauty. A promise of what is to come.

 My tree stands majestically tall, touching the ceiling. It captures the memories of a time when we had nothing, when we had plenty. It tells the story of a family, building memories that shape the human spirit, and define a heart. With each passing year, my tree will be a symbol of hope and joy; a reminder of love and legacy. Something my children will pass on to their children. The light of day begins to break and the glow of my tree burns bright. It quietly sings a song and I hear it in my ear:

Oh Christmas tree, Oh Christmas tree!
Thy leaves are so unchanging
Oh Christmas tree, Oh Christmas tree,
Thy leaves are so unchanging

Not only green when summer's here,
But also when it's cold and drear.
Oh Christmas tree, Oh Christmas tree,
Thy leaves are so unchanging!

Oh Christmas tree, Oh Christmas tree,
Such pleasure do you bring me!
Oh Christmas tree, Oh Christmas tree,
Such pleasure do you bring me!

For every year the Christmas tree,
Brings to us all both joy and glee.
Oh Christmas tree, Oh Christmas tree,
Such pleasure do you bring me!

Oh Christmas tree, Oh Christmas tree,
You'll never be unchanging!
A symbol of goodwill and love
You'll ever be unchanging

Each shining light
Each silver bell
No one alive spreads cheer so well

Oh Christmas tree, Oh Christmas tree,
You'll ever be unchanging

 

 

 

THE DANCER

The music moves me.

Moves me to push my body in ways I do not normally move. I become one with the notes that dance across the page. Explosive emotion erupts like a volcano and I dance…

I move. I flow with flawless perfection. Only me and Lord see. No one else. In His eyes, there is nothing more beautiful. There is nothing more pure. I express my heart in a way that only He has seen. Not even my husband has seen me dance this way.

The music twists and turns with passion and my soul follows. My arms cut through the air with fluid rhythm and I am floating.

Tears stream from my eyes and I know my Savior is dancing with me. He writes the music on my heart. And I, I dance.

The music moves me.

It transfigures my DNA. It expends me. Sweat drips from my brow and muscles ache with delight. I move. I stir with aggravated intention. Pushing this broken body to the edge. Open, there is no limit to my expression.

The music drives the fervor inside of me. My legs twirl like a ballerina, but I reflect nothing of the sort. Yet I feel like I am on Broadway, dancing to perfection.

I am moved.

 Moved to go the distance; to stay the course. It breaks my sorrow, it tackles my pain. The movement gives way to freedom; and I cannot deny its call. Like water cleansing he soul, it washes over me and saturates my being.

Dancing…

I move to the music and it moves me.