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.
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