Emptied and New

Feeling empty.  Not in a bad way. Usually when someone says they feel empty that denotes a feeling of uselessness, depression, confusion, and a total lack of purpose.  I feel, well, clean and new and fresh, like all the poisons and toxins of my life have been sucked out of my soul.  The painful experiences of my past are there, I recognize them as mine, but instead of regret I feel relief.  I just see the wounds of the past for what they are—lessons.   Lessons that have left scars—some barely perceptible, some ugly and ragged and bumpy to the touch, but healed nevertheless.  I rub my fingers over them and wince when I touch a particularly large one, or one that is still healing and raw and red, but I find comfort and peace in touching the brand new pink skin covering the once pus-filled sore.   I feel peace.  I feel new.   It’s as if I was in a dark, dark house riddled with broken floorboards and sharp corners, rooms that were musty and covered with dust and grime.  And I navigated through it, bumping into obstacles along the way, walking into webs of deceit and lies, until I closed my eyes and took Your hand.  Then you blew softly with Your mighty breath and all the dirt and grime disappeared; you led me out of the darkness and then my eyes  opened.