So, What’s it Gonna Take?

I suppose the real question for me to answer has become this.
What’s my purpose?
What is my reason for being and living because more than anything else, I do not want to be here just to be here or take up space.
I want to be more than someone who fills a void because if this is it, or if this is all I am, then I am nothing more than void or void in the sense that I am only here to kill time.
That’s the last thing I want to do.
I want be more than some kind of mild distraction to an otherwise, bigger picture.

What has to happen?
What needs to wake a person up so that they are no longer sleepwalking through life?

What needs to happen?
Does the bottom have to fall out from under us again?

I need to clear my vision. I need to wake up.
I see this as something which is common among us.
I see people who are blind in the sense that they walk, blindly and with their eyes wide open, but worst of all, they go and do, but they see nothing because their eyes are blinded to the sights of heaven-sent beauty.
We have become too blind to so many things. We miss out on the scenery, like the beautiful landscapes that range from the mountaintops to castles built in the sands along the shores of our childhood dreams.

Perhaps I should humble myself. Or more, perhaps I should know what it means to feel the ground beneath my feet. Whereas the past has shown me too much pride and yes, I see this clearly now.
I think that maybe the proud should get down from their so-called “high horse,” and walk for a while. And I mean this, namely me.

So, this is for me because this is me too.
I am far too proud and far too entitled.
I think this is good for me to see. It is better that I call myself to fall to me knees before my pride takes me down and getting back up is an impossibility.
Let me drop now because, yes, I agree that pride does come before the fall. However, how often do we fall? How frequently do we go down and how often do we suffer and hurt?
How many times must we fall before we learn to stop tripping over the same hazards?
I know all about the so-called foxhole prayers.
I’ve been saying them for years now.

How often do we forget the reasons why we’ve fallen and go back to what nearly killed us?

I ask this because the bumps and bruises and scars never seem to act as a good reminder.
Or more, how many times have we been afraid and swore things like, I swear, “I’ll never do this again,” but we do.
We commit the same sin; hence, how many times has my fear vanished when falling off the ledge was no longer a threat?

Everyone finds religion when the threats are real . . .
but what happens when the threats go away?

I want to be more than who I am.
I want to be to you what water means to thirst.
I want this the same as I want the gift of salvation.
Or maybe, perhaps you are my salvation and this is why I focus on you as much as I do.
Maybe you are more than beautiful.
Maybe your voice is like the sound of angels and the choir in your voice is enough to bring belief into my heart.

I want to be food for your soul and taste like salvation each time you swallow my kiss.

I want to feel this.
I want to feel that I have done something worthy, or that I can stand and be proud, or that I can point to something that was built by me, for us, and I can show this to you and say “here, I made this for you.”

I want to be more than ordinary but my fears tell me this is not possible.
No, my fears keep me grounded and my doubt does not allow me to reach for the sky anymore.

What is my purpose?
What have I done?
Have I done anything worthy?

What can I do that will somehow exonerate me from my past or pardon my sins, or my harmful expressions?

Please, tell me.
What am I here for?

I have asked the skies and pleaded with the heavens and more, or as for God the Father, Himself, I have asked for Him to reveal Himself to me.
I have asked for this because somehow, my spiritual blindness has made His light too difficult for me to see.

I want to do more than fill holes or replace the divots I have unearthed.
I want to be more than someone who stands still or acts like a placeholder in this world because, at this point, I am ready for my call to arms.
Let me be the Good Soldier.
Let me try.

I am ready for my purpose.
I am ready and hungry and mad as hell about the way my patterns have led me to dead-ends.

Let me be clear, I am fine if I have to break through the walls or dig my way out.
I am fine if I have to serve my penance and if this is nothing more than another station in Purgatory, than I am thankful for the autumn moon and the colors of the trees.

What is my purpose?
What is my calling?
What are my strengths?
Should this mean that I have to strengthen my weakness, then let me start by exposing where I am weak (or vulnerable).

Let me burst through this bubble, which we call limitations and let me let go of all that detaches me from my dreams.
I need to break this cycle so that I can attach myself to my truth, which is that I do not identify as depressed, and no, I am not the face nor the poster child for depression and anxiety.

I refuse to let this be it.
I refuse to go gently or without a fight.
I refuse to quit, submit, or to lose to life the same way water loses to the drain.

Should this mean that I have to humble myself or that I have to fall to my knees —then, so be it.
Here I am . . .
. . . on my knees.

I remember an evening.
I remember kneeling on the floor, looking upward at the ceiling, as if God above was above my roof and within listening distance.

I swore to myself, “either I quit now, or I swear this off and I never dare to quit again.”

Well, I’m still here. Aren’t I?
That has to mean something.

I know how you say that you couldn’t picture me “the way I was,” and that’s good for me.
I don’t ever want to be that person or be seen as that person again.
I don’t want you to see my “undressed” or like I was.
Maybe this is why I try to hide my scars because I know that people see them as weakness.

I was tired and weak and desperate.
I had no other option or at least so I thought.

I was small, puny, and weak.
I hate that feeling.
I hate feeling helpless and hopeless.
I hate feeling so weak that all I could do is fade into the scene or let the commotion flood over me — so that I can drown in the sorrow or become another casualty and just, “get it over with” already.

“Take me,” I thought.
I’m ready.

I don’t know why some people get off light. I don’t know if I got off easy or if I have more dues to pay.

I just know that I want more than the status quo.
I want to feel the sun on my face.
I want to feel my toes in the sand.
I want to hear the ocean talking to me with waves that crash on the shore.
And I want to know that despite all that happened, I made a difference and meant something to this world.

So, what’s it gonna take?
What’s it gonna take to make this so?

This is the question I ask myself.

If I fail or shoot and miss, then the next question is what am I going to do differently this time?
Of course, my first answer means it’s gonna mean I have to get back up again because either I quit now, or I never quit again.

I get that.

As hard as things can be — I’m sorry. . .
But I just can’t quit.
Not now.
I’m too close.
I can feel it, right at the end of my fingertips.

Blessed Father,

Show me the way.

Please.

And like Father Mike used to say,

“Lord, take me where you want me to go;
let me meet who you want me to meet;
tell me what you want me to say;
and keep me out of your way.”

Amen