Headless Horsemen

headlesshorsemanDo You know the story of the headless horseman? I don’t, actually, but I think that there are a lot of headless horsemen in the blogging world. Bloggers who know how to spill the words on the screen and put up pretty pictures of themselves. But they’re headless. We know there’s a person behind that pretty web page, but we don’t know that person.

Sometimes that’s a good thing. After all, bloggers need their privacy. They are authors, and it’s very rare that we know a real-with-paper-pages-book’s author, yet we trust his words. So it should be the same with bloggers, shouldn’t it?

And yet, we want to know them… to feel a connectedness… an intimacy.  We want these horsemen to wear heads.

There’s a vulnerability in wearing a head. People might look at you. They might judge you. They might deem you as ugly or weird looking. They might point. They might laugh.

But I don’t want the fear of being vulnerable to keep me from wearing a head. So here’s me… putting on a head… my head… the realness… the me-ness.

Judge, if you feel you must. Call me ugly, if that’s your opinion. Point at me like an embarrassing four year old. Laugh, it you feel the need.

But I will still wear my head.

I will be writing a series of posts over the next several weeks that map out the timeline of my life… from my perspective. It’s scary. People I know may not think I tell the story quite right. People I don’t know may judge the life I’ve lived.

But this story… this life that I’ve lived… it’s part of who I am.

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birthCollageThe first cries of a newborn baby pierced the air of the delivery room that early November day in 1978. My mother was exhausted, but not too exhausted to feel a surge of joy. She held me close and brushed her finger across my cheek. I gazed up at her, my eyes filled with wonder. This was the beginning of my adventure.

I didn’t know where this adventure would take me. Which paths I would wander down. Who would hold my hand along the way. Who would fail me. How many times I would stumble. The victories I’d celebrate.

It would have overwhelmed my little baby heart, if I had. The very magnitude of my life would have killed me on the spot.

{I can’t imagine what thoughts went on in little baby Jesus’ mind when He was born. He saw it all. He knew Who He was and where He came from. He knew His purpose, and He knew the pain He would endure.}

I was my parents’ second child. I had an 18 month old brother. Shortly after my birth, my parents were separated and eventually divorced.

I obviously remember very little about my youngest years, but I do know that the tiny memory glimpses that come to me in the night are scary ones. Abusive ones. It’s sad that a child’s mind so easily forgets the happy moments, but holds tight to the scary ones.

Unfortunately, it’s these scary memories that overpower the good….

 

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