He is 16 and walking a tightrope, awkward, unsteady and teetering, one side nowhere and the other nowhere good. He doesn't know it yet but he's a lost boy, a seeker, and he's grasping straws and clutching air, reaching for something he doesn't know exists.
So he fakes it. They all do.
He wears "bad" on his sleeve. The profane pours from his heart nastily dribbling down his chin. Hard rock is his drug of choice, loud, crude, a defiant middle finger. It is masquerade and no one wants to believe it more than him. He fools a few but mostly no one cares.
He is invisible, dying to be seen.
He isn't godless, he worships alright. But the objects of his affections are lost, too, courting millions like him, desperate, soulless, angry, sad, bitter…sightless. They are blind leading blind.
And then he sees a glimpse. A different way.
A flicker of Light.
It woos him, this battered moth to flame.
He wants to be seen and heard and known and accepted.
Tired…weary…in need of healing; so badly wounded he doesn't even notice all the places he's bruised and bleeding.
He doesn't need my judgment.
This child needs love. This child needs freedom. This child needs grace. This child needs Jesus.
Don't we all?
Linked to Just Write at Heather of The Extraordinary Ordinary's blog.
Image: The Scream by Norwegian artist Edvard Munch