Cocoon

I sit down indian-style in the middle of the floor and scribble in the carpet with my finger. I have resisted coming here lately. I feel naked and distracted. I am tense and resistant. I am too composed. I need to do things so I feel productive. I can’t smile. Everything feels cold and stiff but I know something in me wants to be here.

 

I need to be still. Stop fidgeting. My finger stops. I close my eyes and hold my breath. I want you here but I don’t want to let go. I listen. I wait. I am trying to squint my way to you. I am grimacing like I’m in pain. I am anxious. I have it together. If I am not composed and in control then I will feel ashamed. If I let go I will feel like I need to apologize. I don’t want to show emotion and make you uncomfortable, Father. I need to relax.

 

Too much of me is still exposed to the openness. I bend my upper body toward the ground. I curl into a ball on my side and hug my knees to chest. I still feel unsettled trying to shelter myself. I need to relax my eyes and stop squinting. I breathe slowly and try to calm myself. I wait for the cocoon to come. The warmth.

 

Sometimes I like being a caterpillar. I return over and over. I stay there a little too long at times. But I sense the hunger. I vaguely remember what the wings feel like. And then I remember the process of building the cocoon and I cringe a little. Was it worth it last time? I think I just want to stay here. I still know you’re there somewhere, you just don’t feel as close as you could. No, it is always worth it when you change me. The metamorphosis. The cocoon is warm. Climbing out feels invigorating. The wings carry me effortlessly. I just don’t want to build that damn cocoon…

 

I listen. I want to close my ears but I also want them wide open. I know if I concentrate enough I can shut out the world. No, that isn’t quite right. I need to stop trying and forcing. The world will stay. I need to quiet myself and open my heart ears. I need to let go. The chaos is real. The chaos is what brings me to you. I don’t need you to take it away. Thank you, Jesus. I want to be with you. Thank you, Jesus. There are many things I don’t understand. I am scared. Can I trust you, Father?

 

You have been refining me lately and it hurts. I have been resisting building the cocoon. But it brings me to you. I allow my lips to smile. I relax more. I do not have it all together. I am not strong. I am a mess. I am poor in spirit. I am hungry for you, Abba. Not by might. Not by power. By your Spirit. Thank you for grace that covers.

 

The warmth is coming. The tears come. I know you will catch me once I let go. The fire is stirring. You know everything about me and you love me. Thank you, Abba. I don’t want to hold on. You teach me not to condemn myself. It is okay to laugh. It is okay to cry. It is okay to smile. It is okay to relax. It is okay to dance. You know me. Thank you, Jesus. You can have me.

 

I am bare but I do not feel naked or ashamed because the cocoon is forming. Thank you, Jesus. Thank you, Daddy. I know you hold me. Thank you, Jesus. I relax and my heart urgently reaches for you. I don’t know anything except you. I am not scared. I finally let go and my heart is dancing. The fire is growing. Tears continue. I am coming back home. Breathe out. Thank you, Jesus.

 

You are a consuming fire. The flames are roaring. The tears are pouring out. A rush. Unwrap my arms and stretch out my legs because the cocoon is here now. I am not my shelter.

 

Quiet. The flames crackle and hum. You hold me in your lap. You are gentle. You knock. You do not barge. We stay here for a while.

 

You whisper to me. You quiet my soul. You teach me to forgive. You heal me. You make me whole again. You give me desires. You let me create like you create. You remind me how to dance. You make me carefree. You make me jubilant. Thank you, Jesus.

 

I am your beloved. I am your child. You delight in me. Thank you, Jesus.

 

It is almost time to go.  I can feel them on my back.

 

Freedom.

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