So while I was lying on the floor crying and deciding whether it was worth it to live, I suddenly got the idea to read the Bible. It was there under my bed (easy to spot since I was sprawled out all over the floor), so I flipped it open and found a scripture. I read it and I wasn’t convinced. But I wrote it on the wall anyway so I could keep reading it without having to hold open a rather heavy book while I was too depressed to even lift my head. I wrote it at the bottom of the wall so it was at eye level. I couldn’t see it when I stood up. It was like my little secret.
That’s how The Wall was born. I wrote lots of scriptures on it. Some I wrote in pen; I scrawled one verse on it with huge letters in green crayon. It helped me remember to live, and stuff like that. When my husband moved back in, I think he saw it as evidence that I was nuts. He never understood The Wall, but he’s been very patient about it. I tried to explain it once, but he doesn’t get it and that’s okay.
Today I painted over it with Kilz. Um, is that symbolic? Nah.
I’m grateful for The Wall and the words on it. There have been times since “the dark year” (thanks for that name, Melody) that I’ve remembered, and leaned my cheek on the words, and thanked God for getting me through it.
Even when the words are hidden under a coat or two of blue paint, they’ll still be there.