On this day in 2011, I shared a song on Facebook that I was enjoying at the time. I hesitated clicking on that link. I have a lot of oppressive memories of that time in my life. Cringing when I heard the familiar gravel of a voice that used to intrigue me, I almost closed out of that window. But I hesitated, because the mellow guitar intro had somehow brought me back to a time before . . .

Before the disappointment swell, before the rock bottom, before the loss of purpose, before the loss of identity — long before. Those days when I was fighting sin with fire and force, when I breathlessly contemplated an entire life of self-sacrifice. I swear I got high on the thought that I could be like Mother Theresa, only to my family and friends — arguably a more noble sacrifice than giving to strangers.

I had moved my mom and best friend into a rental house on a better side of town and I had started college, and with a little extra from my students loans I bought a Mac. I had a corner desk unit that tucked nicely into the space at the foot of my bed, a futon I set on cinder blocks. I would slide the plastic accordion door closed to my basement bedroom and write for hours — posting on Livejournal, writing for school assignments, writing in whatever text editor program Mac had at the time.

And on that Mac, I had so much music. This is back when it was always better to download or burn music than to find it on Youtube and stream it. Remember buffering? Remember hitting the “pause” button and watching that little bar inch its way across the screen, trying to figure when it would be alright to push “play” so that it wouldn’t stop in the middle of the song? Remember when Netflix was a DVD service?

I’m old.

But I would sit there, typing stream of consciousness and making all these plans of how I was going to be this Better Person, and I would listen to Relient K and Third Day and Casting Crowns.

And this song I shared on Facebook back in 2011, just a year before I found myself doing the Worst Thing, it reminded me of this time three years earlier.

This time when I was wounded but trying to figure things out, hadn’t written myself off yet, still thought that with the right influences I could be “good”. And I guess that part of it is really bittersweet, because if I could go back I would have to tell this girl that she’s not ever going to be the saint she daydreams about. I’d have to tell her that this song she likes, about how God has always loved her, says infinitely more about God than it does about her. And although I know she wouldn’t listen, I would have to tell her that if she keeps fighting to conform to this image she’s crafted for herself of the Ideal Woman, she will not only fail but she will burn a lot of people in the process.

And despite all this, the words still hold true:

Don’t you know I’ve always loved you,
even before there was time
Though you turn away I tell you still
Don’t you know I’ve always loved you
And I always will.