God gave me the bench in the park.
He said to give my thoughts to it whenever I wanted. He explained that I am not built to carry so much anger, fear, guilt, sadness, resentment and shame. Crafted by the hands of boys hoping to earn a badge of honor, the bench is sturdy. It can bear the emotional load I give to it.
Every season I make my pilgrimage to the bench and give my thoughts to it:
Summer’s heat warms and dries the bench. A thick mossy blanket hides the scars of my guilt and shame.
Autumn’s coolness embraces the bench. The breeze shifts the brittle, scarlet and gold leaves that lie upon the bench like my resentments.
Winter’s icy winds lash at the bench and bury it in snow along with my anger. The bench never wavers.
Spring creeps in and slowly washes away winter, staining the bench’s wooden skin dark with my sadness.
I wonder how many others have given their thoughts over to this peeling and scratched bench. How long can the bench bear the unleashed fury of emotions?
In the end, the bench holds out the possibility that freedom is inside of me. Yes, I believe there is a warm spot for redemption on that bench. We can all get there, but it might take awhile.
What do you think?
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