It Is Finished

Earlier this year I thought that starting was the hardest part for me. I said it was. I always had to put more thought into it. It just seemed that it was more work, but I always did it with no problem. As much as I tried to pride myself by saying it was hard it wasn’t. Starting never was. I just didn’t want to admit my faults.

The beginning of the story is perhaps where the most thought occurs, but it is also the easiest thought. I said that starting was the hardest part and then proceeded to not finish at all. Starting may be hard, but at least I can do that. I can’t end at all. Maybe the beginning is difficult sometimes, taking new steps and not knowing where your feet might land. But the end is even more terrifying. The end is the moment you realize that a new beginning is on its way. It’s the way my mind races as I attempt to figure out what to do next, where to go, how to seek hope – how to seek life from its very creator. It’s learning how to move on, how to let go of the old and wondering what the new might bring.

The end is the moment you take things away, when you’re supposed figure out what you’ve learned, when you realize that you can’t always do that. It’s seeing what has been set in front of you the entire time. Starting is thought, it floods my brain but it doesn’t matter nearly as much. Thinking about being vulnerable is not being vulnerable. Thinking about seeking my Savior is not the same as actually seeking Him. And, in truth, that’s what will always be the hardest for me, what I will always need to be reminded of over and over. It’s what will make me start again and again. The end is the hardest part to believe – that there’s nothing more I can do, nothing more I need to do.

It is finished.

And sometimes I just don’t know what to do with that.





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On How I Imagine Water

I don’t know why but I always imagined the ocean to be smooth. I always pictured the shore consistently being washed by the tide and then drying as it left. There were waves in my image, yes, but they were calm, peaceful. Long before I even imagined any of it, water has been a symbol of hope, of love, of cleanliness, the washing away of all that stains our broken hearts.


But it isn’t always smooth. It isn’t always consistent and it isn’t always calm. And it terrifies me to no end. I always loved water, the kind in pools and lakes, rivers and raindrops, filling my cup, but I hate the ocean. It’s rough and unpredictable and exciting and I hate it. I want peace that doesn’t come with so many waves. I want to imagine that I don’t need that much water.


My life flipped upside down a few months ago. I felt as though all of that water was being poured over me all at once. I can be reminded over and over that it was for my own good, and it was. I can feel joy and happiness about what it brought me. But I refuse to be happy about the way it was poured. I go back to that day in my head all the time and I remind myself that the one dunking me in the water did it with good intentions and I like to think that her words didn’t hurt, but they did. And I’m done lying to myself about that.


But still, the water washed over my mind and it was thick, like paint, leaving markings of hope and love. It’s like instead of taking things away like I always imagine water to do, it’s putting more on me. It’s better but if I’m being honest, I hardly notice it. It’s made me admit a lot about myself to myself, things I always knew but imagined I could keep hidden. I never expected the water to wash all of that to shore.


Maybe that’s how it’s supposed to be. Maybe that is peace or the start of it anyway. It’s not the taking away of the old and unwanted, but bringing in the new and needed. I don’t know, but I do know that it is good. It is everything I imagined it to be and everything I didn’t. It is both calm and rough, both consistent and unpredictable. Water drowns us, but it also quenches thirst.


And as much as I hate to admit it, it is good.