Living in a Plastic Bubble

I feel as though I live in a plastic bubble. It surrounds me, but it cannot be seen. I see everyone around me, I hear them speak. Behind their words, they hide from me. They look at me and think they know me. But they don’t see my bubble, they don’t look long enough to see it. I try to talk with them, to share myself, but my words return, unlistened to. And nobody hears.

I move through the days insulated in my protective bubble. I reach out to ones that I love, but they don’t notice. They don’t feel my need. When I extend my hand, no one takes it. Heavy hearted, I withdraw it, vowing never to offer it again. I call to those around, I beg, “Please, help me. Please touch me. Please love me.” And nobody hears.

Though not made of plastic my bubble is real. It is comprised of many things. The sting of harsh words, spoken thoughtlessly. The heartache of love unrequited. The disappointment of a trust broken. The guilt of mistakes past. The terror of, again, being rejected. These things envelop me, isolate me; in my torment I scream, but it is silent. And nobody hears.

I sought escape from my invisible prison. I looked for someone, some person who would see my bubble and free me of it. I searched for years, to naught. And then, when all seemed hopeless, I turned my eyes in a new direction. There he stood, arms outstretched, beckoning me. He spoke to me. He touched me.

Then I understood what I should have always known. Through all the empty years and broken dreams, I never had been alone. He was always there, just waiting for me to call. I closed my eyes and whispered, “God, please help me. Please touch me. Please love me.”

And he heard.

Mark Trotter, Collected Sermons,

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