Demons

I have anger issues. A demon that hides for days at a time and rips through my chest when least expected. An anti-Sarah that lurks in the recesses of myself, poking her head out now and then.

Sometimes I can control it, her, them. Other times, I can't. No one knows this better than my family. My parents have seen me lose all control, throwing chairs and slamming doors. My sisters have seen my face contort in rage and felt my fists.

Self righteous anger. Rage fueled by my own morals and ethics.

You shouldn't be doing that.

You won't stop unless I make you.

The only way to stop you is beat it out of you.

How long before that last phrase becomes "kill you"?

The real Sarah, the one of Spirit and not flesh, cries for the pain she inflicts. She wants to protect and heal, not hurt and injure. Her dream is to fight against those that beat down the helpless, to reign victorious over the dictators and oppressors of the world.

It isn't enough. It isn't enough to hope and wish and dream. Only action makes a difference. Only movement changes things. But action devoid of dreams, devoid of hope is destructive. Impulsiveness, lashing out, all this does is tear down. It never builds up.

How can I apologize? How can I make amends? How can I be forgiven, when the demons inside of me strike again? They strike because I let them. They are there because I harbor them. I protect them. I feel stronger, safer with them. No one can touch me, no one can hurt me.

I'm just flesh and bones after all. What am I? Flesh that melts, bones that dry, crack, and fall into dust. Skin that breaks, rips, veins that bleed, organs that burst. One wrong move, and it's all done. One small glitch and the whole computer shuts down. Such a great balance, tipped one way and it's all over. Only He keeps that balance. Only He controls it. Only He maintains it.

So what am I? Just a creation. A creation no different than any other. A sinful, disgusting creature full of malice, lust, pride, and folly.

Yet this I recall to mind and therefore I have hope.

You died Lord.

You died Lord.

Assuredly, like the coming of the dawn the Father's love song goes,

drowning out my bitter song and breaking through walls and barriers,

Christ swoops in,

removes sin,

picks up His bride and carries her so I can sing in agreement with the King this thing.

'There's only one thing that please the Father,

the God-man on the tree in the midst of the scoffers.

Now I finally see that Christ is what Christ offers,

and I'm finally free in the love of the Father'.