I thought it was gone.
I thought we were done with this.
Will you ever leave me fully?  
We you ever leave me in full?

Sometimes this is the conversation that goes with my sin.  Or sometimes it’s what goes with my circumstance.  Today it's my summer.  I can't get rid of it.  Fall is edging toward Winter, and I'm still stuck in a season well past.  

Some call what I'm experiencing "Post Traumatic Stress Syndrome."  I call it…I don’t know what I call it.  Hard.  Exhilerating.  Awful.  Real.  Right. …  It depends on the hour.

Tip-toe'ing on the gates of hell scared me to a point where death and danger are no longer what happens to old people, or hurts only on the movie screen.  Death is real and danger is present.  The question is, am I willing to feel that?  In a culture that’s convenient and “full of life,” am I willing to feel that no matter how it’s spun, it still carries death.  Sometimes at face value, and sometimes as an undercurrent, but at the end of the day, I’m still a dying person.  We’re still a dying people, and we still live on a dying planet.  

So in a world that facades reality and a body that runs from pain, do I have the courage to engage with death’s sentence?  And if so, do I have the courage to engage with the one that claims Life?