Frantically, sometimes, I feel as though I scream to all the world—to anyone who will listen:
“Love me, love me, love me!”
My restlessness and propensity to ignore what I already possess sometimes drive me to a raging, violent search. In the aftermath, it is as if I am curled up on the floor, bits and pieces of my heart and identity strewn about me, lavished foolishly on conditional love. My heart closes, hardens, believing I can never be loved.
“No one will love me. I am worthless. I am too much. I am not enough.”
Misplaced love hardens the heart, and I am sure no one would ever want to love me. I wouldn’t believe them if they told me they loved me.
But there is One who cuts through time and space to get to where I am. There is One whose nail-scarred hands reach to me. The same One who allowed criminals to brutally murder Him to save me.
There is One who stayed through the torture. He stays even now, loving me. Loving you.
Nothing I do. Nothing you do. Only His love.
(Source: ever-gazing.tumblr.com )
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