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    Alrighty, let me just head this up by saying; I am fine. I know my last was a bit disconnected from my usual goofy-like posts, and the post before that was me having a realization; but overall, I am fine. Mentally, I’m doing better, I just have to work through some things, physically…I better be more fit soon because working out bores me (I know that’s not how it works, and it’s not totally boring, I just like video games more).

I digress. That being said, two years ago I wrote this little post. I’ve read it out loud once, and I’ve had people read it, and while it is something I want to get published soon, I’m still not certain where to go with it… also I don’t enjoy editing so…

**(Also, sorry for the weird sentence cuts, it didn’t transfer very well to WordPress.)*

More than Boxes

Okay, so picture this:
You’ve got this huge moving truck full of boxes.

You’re pulled up in front of this little building and you’re unloading boxes;

They aren’t ordinary boxes, though. These boxes are heavy and varying in size.

They have their labels on them-and that’s what is curious.

These labels don’t have ‘kitchen supplies’ and ‘paperwork’ written on them,

they have shaky handwriting with words such as ‘past regrets’ ‘mistakes’ ‘anger’ ‘lies’ and ‘hatred’.

You name a road block you’ve hit, those darn boxes have it.

And the reason they’re all boxed up is because you’re ready to get rid of them.

All of them.

Except, maybe, that big one, which you only look at on occasion,

and those slightly larger ones-but no matter,

these contributions that will leave your life will do you a world good.
You pick up a box and struggle to lug it into the building.

You’re greeted by a very cheerful man.

He smiles at you, chatting away about life’s pleasures and his latest deals, all just for you.

You set the box counter, and his smile disappears.
“Oh I’m sorry,” He says, frowning at the box “We don’t do returns.”
You match his frown with your own “I didn’t pay for this. You gave me something else.”

Your points and accusations are useless at this point, so you leave the place in a huff, feeling tired,

despite carrying just one box.

You wish you could throw that box at the store, only you can’t, your muscles are crying out for mercy.

Defeated, you set the box down with the others.
Some time passes of you just sitting, and it seems as if the boxes have multiplied, like gerbils…or Tribbles, if you will. Eventually, a group of people come up, offering to dispose of them, promising you that they will never return. All you have to do is sign that dotted line. At this point, you have fully decided these boxes are, indeed, tribbles, and they are no longer cute, because they are annoying. So you sign, and watch as they carry a few away. You get up, feeling encouraged at the slightest dent in your mess. You carry a few boxes, a spring in your step. This goes on for a while, but eventually, the complaints, and the contract are on its way around to bite you in the butt.
“They’re too heavy.” One of the people says, you groan, and attempt to pick up the slack.
“A contribution will surely help the process go smoother. After all, you promised to help in any way.”

Another chimes in.

Reluctantly, you hand over everything you have.
Your heart, your soul, that really cool shirt you’ve been cherishing for years.
They work a little longer, and then, despite their claims, they leave.

They were kind enough to leave you what you gave them, only they left it on the road,

where it was run over.

They also left you with a new set of problems.
So there you are, sitting on the back of that now eighteen-wheeler, exhausted, miserable,

and at your wit’s end.
You’re done.

It looks like these problems are going to live with you for the rest of your life,

and forevermore.
“Do you want some help?” A friendly voice asks, you look up to see two palms outstretched.

Wounds are engraved on them, and they have a few scratches as well.

You look up to view the owner of these over-worked hands,

the light coming from who knows where making it very hard to make out his face.
You force a smile and try to form the words “I’m fine” on your dry, chapped lips.

Instead, you let out a slight cry, tears sliding down your once-clean cheeks.

“S-sir” you stammer, trying to brush away the tears with the back of your sore hands

“Too many people have tried to help me, but my boxes are too heavy. I can barely carry one.”
There’s a slight shadow on the lower end of his face, so you are now able to make out a soft smile.

“I can help.” He insists, grabbing a box that sat beside you.

You watch as he carries it inside a building, that if you were honest, you had only stepped foot in once.
He grabs several more, and seems to carry them with ease.

His second time around, he returns with healing creams, band aids, and water.

He hands them to you, then gathers many of the boxes you couldn’t even push.

You drink the water, and attempt to apply the band aids and cream.

Your hands are shaking, even more so when something you once loved and

thought was gone is placed beside you.
Your trust.
You look up, voice warbling, officially, your crying. “I’m m-messed up so bad.” You sob.

The hands with painful-looking markings rest on both of your shoulders.
“It’s okay.” The voice says, the words are calming, but the words that come next shock you.

“I still love you.”
Your cries are officially louder than your problems-a nice, but painful change.

“H-how can you still love me, after all that I did?” Your voice is a near whisper.
Instead of answering your question, his response is a question of his own. “Do you want help?”
You nod and brush away some tears. “H-how can you help me, though? They’re so heavy.”
“To you, these are heavy, to me, these are light.” He picks up a small one and hands it to you

“If you’ll meet me halfway, we’ll be able to do this.”
You nod mutely and follow him to the building he had previously carried many others.

It’s much more glamorous than you thought, or remember it being.

You watch as he chucks his boxes into the black abyss on one side of the large, luxurious, room.

He motions you to come closer.

“Where are they going?” You croak, feeling a sudden sense of nerves prickling at your skin.
He smiles “Nowhere. They’re no more.”

He turns to you fully “Now, I know it’s going to be hard, but you have many boxes,

a few of which need to leave before you ever show progress.

Are you ready?” You look at them, and then toss the small box in the abyss,

watching in wonder as it becomes nothing.

You look back to him, a smile gracing your face, reaching your eyes for the first time in a long time.

“Yeah, I’m ready.”
————————————NOT THE END—————————————
“Cast your burdens on the Lord, and He will sustain you;

He will never permit the righteous to be moved.”

Psalm 55:22

 

 

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