Too much darkness. Too many burdens to be laid upon an all too heavily-laden heart; as though an echoing canyon demands the filling of its emptiness. But more substance does not create less emptiness: only more echoes. And as the chaotic dance of too many directions leaves only a valley of collision, the heart in whom Death's shadow has been overtaken is abandoned to its confusion, overwhelmed by the terrifying volume of the shadow of life. Life that looks too much toward the beating of the heart, and not to the Forever that endures beyond breathing. Too much existence smothers the flickering freedom of eternity. Too much smoke veils the vision of what will linger beyond its dissipation. The sight of that which vanishes has no courage to offer: only the assurance of an end. Disillusionment cradles Disappointment as if in fear for its life, clinging together in the devouring time-hole of expectation whose name is Despair.

No. No more.

I choose Hope.

Too much heartache, hung upon too many loosened chains of loyalty freed with a vengeance. Too many idle words spoken from the shallowness of a heart caring nothing for another's wholeness, too blinded by itself to care if it tarnishes Another's treasure. Too many dreams woven of gossamer too fragile not to tear, too deceitful in its illusion of strength that does not suffer for its beauty. Too little memory for the truths that still linger. They lie invisible, hidden by shrouds of unspoken strengthlessness and overwhelmed by the lulling serenade of lies captivated by a carelessly-built castle of Unreality. Waiting. Wandering. Lost.

But not forgotten.

I choose Promise.

Too harsh the betrayal of hearts whose lovelessness is morphed into language. Universal understanding is ever dependent upon the generosity of shared circumstance; yet barriers cannot exist between the sincerity of a deceitful heart and the searching eyes of the Unending. What is honest only in the beauty of silence becomes terrifying when unspoken meaning lies bare before Faithfulness itself. Treachery may linger behind a veil only until the passing passes, and then the glory of its dross is worn away, leaving only the substance of what is unredeemed. Only truth. Only terror. Only time.

Not this time.

I choose Devotion.

Too much absence. The burden of that which gives no lasting goodbye cuts deeply in the memory of a tomorrow whose loss has not yet been suffered. Fear is the imperfection of a heart: fondness may be the deepening of one, yet for both to exist together betrays the presence of an imperfect depth. To fear the absence of joy is to deny the future of its thankfulness. Past is not a gift to be clung to any more than Future is a gift to be grasped; they fear not loss or aloneness: only the absence of wonder, whose vagrance diminishes the wholeness of a heart.

Not this heart.

I choose Love.

Too many words. Too many choices. Too many partial things that do not describe the whole. I cannot choose the pieces and refuse the picture. A puzzle finished does not diminish the mystery of its pieces: it only deepens the wonder to be found in the masterpiece of its completion. And what remains in the end is not a limitation, but an imagination no longer limited. A soul no longer shattered. A vision made endless by the endlessness of a Lover's devotion.

No longer broken. 

I choose my Jesus.
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