A Season of Winter

What was it about faith that made it painful? If I love God, must I hate myself? If I leave God, will I learn to love who I am? Did my desire warrant my exile just because my presence contradicted a doctrine built on conservatism? And for this, I should cut into my skin and bleed sacrificially? For God's supposed glory, I reviled the very sensation I longed for, as if a man's touch might condemn me forever. For years, I prayed for God to rid me of my affections and fix my thoughts on what is true, and honorable, and right, and pure, and lovely, and admirable—if only to be accepted by the masses.  I believe that the Christian faith is but an idealistic worldview placing human individuality at the substratum of sin. How is it that a God can love me for who I am, with a love that may presumably change the essence of who I am? To be affirmed by Christian doctrine, must I first admonish the most authentic part of myself? The condition of God's unconditional love is that I chasti...

I used to wake up to see the sun rise each morning. Something about the pastel sky just made me happy. Pale streaks of yellow and pink that contrasted with a sunset, birds chirping in senseless communion, but harmonious all the same. Only the best parts of the world were yet to awaken. I considered myself lucky to behold them. In many ways, I was like Spring. Vibrant in my colors, fervent in my harvest. I made good company, casting a soft light in many skies, or so I thought.  Then I was Summer. Unbearable to some, enjoyed by others. I couldn't help the opinions of those around me. It is, after all, my nature to burn. To feel my own heat scorch the skin of those who stay in it for too long. I watched as my world hid from me behind closed doors. I wondered, am I too close to the surface? If I pull back, will I still be Summer? If only I could be Spring again. That's the thing about seasons: they change even if you don't want them to. For some time, I related more to Autumn b...