I know about the girl in the pit.
The one who sometimes rises up out of you, responding out of irreparable wounds, shooting a soul-flushing white fire from her eyes, speaking hatred without words. I know how you feel about her. And I know how she makes you feel. You hate that girl. You have banished her as often as you could. Denied her as any part of the real you. You have functioned under the delusion that she has no attachment to you at all. She’s just that ugly, mean, troubled, disturbing, embarrassing jerk that lives in the pit you dug for her.
And she just…
You truly hate her.
I know. I hated her, too.
I dug pit after pit for her. I beat and banished her in ways that would make your skin crawl. I said terrible things to her. I joined in the ranks of demons whispering around her… constantly validating the lies that were told so many times they began to distort her skin and her face and change the color of her hair. She was becoming those lies. And I was letting her. I thought she deserved it.
But there came a time that she came out of that pit and I had to look at her — really look at her, in the face and the eyes. She was like a wild, mangy, wounded cat that I couldn’t touch without getting clawed and hissed at. And when she finally calmed down — when I finally saw the blood and gore of what had been done to her — I could scarcely face her.
Because she wasn’t her.
She was me.
I had joined the war against myself. My actual self. And I had lost. Either way.
Child, listen to me. I’m going to tell you the whole truth. And when I say you, I mean you. All of you. You and the girl in the pit. Not the whole world — not all the peoples of all nations past, present or future. I’m talking to you, so stop subconsciously looking for an excuse to only halfway listen (and therefore halfway believe) what I’m about to say to you. Look at me right here on this screen behind those little black symbols. And do not look away until we are finished.
You were always intended to be this girl — however many pieces of you are lying around or being punished right now. Maybe slightly impulsive and reactionary. Angry about being angry. Bright and fast and brave and sensitive and deep. You were always going to be this girl with this story — regardless of how your experience has dictated it you. Every moment has been and will continue to be on purpose. And you will see, when it is all said and done and restored, that it was all for your good. Every thread was weaved out of the great love housed for you at the turn of every invisible corner. If you sit still and quiet enough, you will know it’s there — soaking through your pores, turning your hair into gold, adoring you with a power that probably terrifies you even now. Because it is the Truth, child — the Truth who has a name. And He will never stop pursuing you. All of you. Even the one in the pit.
I know these things because He told me. And when I asked how to save her — how to save us — He told me she was already saved. He had already rescued her.
She was already a hero.
He gave me a story for her — a story to show me what kind of hero she really is. It’s not all glitz and glamour. It’s not all chocolates and true love. But it’s not that pit, either. And for some reason, while my sweet friend and I have been telling the story of this and other heroes we have been digging out from various other pits, we were told to bring that story to you.
In the meantime, stop beating the tired girl in the pit. Stop joining the raging, merciless, malicious battle against yourself. Get up, beloved. Grab the scarred hand of Truth that has been reaching down there for you this entire time. Take the outrageous risk of believing Him when He says “you belong.” And let Him bind you together again — as it was in the beginning with Him, before you ever drew breath on this planet. I repeat, lest I forget:
He will never stop pursuing you.
My frame was not hidden from you, when I was being made in secret, intricately woven in the depths of the earth. Your eyes saw my unformed substance; in your book were written, every one of them, the days that were formed for me, when as yet there were none of them.