“We are not saved by our gifts and talents. We are saved
through our weakness, our brokenness, through our shame
and our sin. The gospel is not that Christ united Himself
with our wonderfulness:
For He made Him who knew no sin to be sin for us, that
we might become the righteousness of God in Him. (2Co
Our union with Christ is precisely in our brokenness and
shame – and we fear to go there. We pity those who
are broken and work hard (and even pretend) not to be
among their number.
True repentance is the acknowledgement of
weakness and sin, not the promise to do better.”
I feel the problem with most people who choose a religion have a problem with wanting to change themselves to more properly follow their scripture. this does not exclude satanists nor athiests either. This is unatural though. when you follow a certain religion, scripture, or philosophy that makes up such a massive part of your life you shouldnt have to compromise to follow it. if you truly believe in it then following it should be second nature. when reading the satanic bible never once did i say, “well ok, i guess im a satanists now time to start living my life this way!” when reading the satanic bible i said, “Exactly!!! this is how ive always felt!” nothing changed, the satanic bible only provided an explanation to me of how i felt on the inside, it didnt provide a guide to live my life by it spelled out the guide that i was already following. that being said no matter what religion you follow be it chritianity or satanism or hinduism or whatever it may be, just ask yourself if this religion is you, or are you being slowly molded into the model slave that your religion wants you to be? im not saying that the world would be better without religion, i just think the world would be a better place if everyone stop letting religion change the person they truly are. the happiness the satanic bible has provided me is unreal. a religious text shouldnt say you are brokenn here is the way to be, it should say youre a wonderful person, be the best you that you can be! how ironic to the common members of the herd that such a possitive message can be found in the book of the beast!
Kintsugi: the Japanese art of repairing broken ceramics with gold; where brokenness is celebrated not by itself, but for how the piece is sealed with gold.
With this technique brokenness is revered as an event memorialized through gold filling damaged places. Because it bears marks of having been restored and thus having a new life, the healed vessel is seen as more beautiful, valuable. Brokennes is an event embraced as part of the vessel’s origins and not a flaw; to be displayed with pride and not covered in shame.
I want to encourage you to walk in your own form of Kintsugi. It’s not about how broken you are but how/ what you use to you heal yourself and the attitude you have towards your sealed scars. No matter what has happened to you that has torn your soul to pieces you can fill the cracks with GOLD and proudly display each seal as an event that has added value to your lustrous being. Damage does not disqualify you from destiny.
I have taken every event in my history that was meant to leave me uselessly broken and have chosen to heal myself with something more valuable. I see those events as God expanding me to hold more, giving me something precious in exchange for my pain. I look at these and my memory is redirected to this magnificent exchange; my narrative can’t help but bear the awesome testament.
Sometimes transformation comes in the form of things that break you just so you can be sealed all over, not with the glue of heartache or the seal of failed attempts to repair the past-but with gold that proves you’ve been restored, eyes forward, faith strengthened.
Hiiiii guys! So in honor of reaching 1k (TODAY), my blog’s 1st birthday (July 29th), my 18th birthday (July 31st), and my FIRST EVER 1D CONCERT (August 9th), I have decided to celebrate by making my first follow forever!
These are just some favorite mutuals (so many wow) but EVERYONE I follow is hella so be sure to check out my blogroll!
Aaron sparks a ball of fire in his hand and throws it at the spikes of ice that form sharp teeth at the mouth of the cave, jutting up and down from its lips and fitting together like a jigsaw puzzle.
Impenetrable. The enchanment in the icicles allow nothing but a thin sheen of water to show for the fireball that just collided with it.
“Call, you have to help me,” Aaron says, producing another fireball. He thinks of Tamara and Jasper, back in the forest, days ago when they were patching up the plan to end this once and for all - right before literal chaos swept them to different paths.
He hasn’t heard from them since, and worry has been clawing through his guts, unsatiable. They have to find each other as soon as they can.
He hurls the burning orb at the ice barricade. The fireball disintigrates upon contact, like smoke sucked through the thin gaps in between the icicles.
“Call, come on,” he bites, more urgently. They have to hurry. They have to make sure the others are safe before - before something bad.
When only silence follows, he turns around and sees the vague outline of Call’s body at the tail end of the cave, hazed by the soft glow of the ice walls. “Call?”
He doesn’t move, and something sick twists Aaron’s stomach. During the struggle down in the mountains, silver teeth from a rare metal elemental had snagged the flesh at Call’s arm. They had little to no time to assess the injury - after immediately being thrown by Master Joseph into this cave - much less actually heal the wound.
Maybe - no. No. Call wouldn’t die here. He wouldn’t.
Still, Aaron strides over with dread. Crouches in front of him. Call is slumped against the wall, eyes screwed shut, legs outstretched in front of him. Aaron takes his injured arm and sighs breathily in relief when he realizes the wound’s not too deep, feels the heat of his skin in his fingers. He binds the wound quickly.
Hand curling at his knee cap, Aaron says, “Call, are you okay?”
“Get your hands off,” Call snaps when he opens his eyes, like he hadn’t known Aaron was this close. Scoots away from him. “You should leave.”
“I know,” Aaron says, frowning. “I want to. We want to. Tamara and Jasper need us.”
“I can’t leave here, Aaron. I can’t. I belong here. He brought me here because he knows I belong here,” he says. He breaks away from Aaron’s gaze, turns to look at his lap instead. And then, “I should die here.”
The words, so soft and so fractured he barely hears them, sputter on their way to Aaron’s already frayed processing nerves. “What? Call, I don’t understand. What do you mean?”
“I should die here. I should die here with the rest of them.”
“Call, look at me. I don’t understand what you’re talking about -”
“Aaron, I killed them,” he snaps, looking back at him. Bruised, destroyed, a soldier in the face of defeat. Raw. “I killed them here, all of them. Babies and mothers. They died here.”
The Cold Massacre. The sheer history of this cave suddenly presses down on Aaron, palpable and suffocating. He’s only ever heard of this place in stories, like a myth so many believed and so many times retold to the point of realness. Awe strikes him first, just a sliver. Sorrow follows, for the families of the fallen, for their friends. For the dreams and futures destroyed and crushed within these walls.
And then - coiling heartache, for his best friend. Call looks at him like he’s challenging him to prove him wrong, like he both wants and dreads his agreement.
He continues, softer, “My mother - his mother, she carved this, right before she died. Read it.” He swipes his fingers across some writings pressed into the walls.
KILL THE CHILD.
“How sad is that? That the last words a mother ever writes is an order to kill her baby? I did that, Aaron.“ Call inhales, and only by its brokennes does Aaron recognize just how close he is to tears.
Call only shakes his head, opening his mouth a couple of times, but each time only allowing a warm, shaky breath. Finally, closing his eyes, he says, “I belong here. I should die here. I don’t - I don’t belong anywhere else.”
The thing is - Aaron had never doubted Call to be the Enemy of Death. He had never doubted there to be a Call Before and a Call After.
It’s that the only Call he has ever known is the Call who sneaked a wolf pup into the Magisterium out of fear that it wouldn’t survive on its own, the Call who would risk all for his father despite thinking it would mean his death at his own hands, the Call who fiercely loves his friends and pizzas and who fears coming close to parallel everything Constantin had been and had done.
It’s that he knows Call, and he’s heard of Constantin, and the two are so starkly contrasting that it rarely even comes to Aaron’s mind that he laughs with the same soul that caused chaos and wreaked havoc, and it doesn’t feel like it matters. This is where he understands Alastair - how he loves him as a son and nothing else, nothing beyond.
It’s that Aaron loves Call, and it’s nowhere close to loving somebody deadly.
So he scratches out the carved letters with his own blade and leans down to kiss him with absolutely no hesitation. Chapped, cold lips part at the pressure of his own. When he pulls away, Call gulps, apalled, and there’s a flitting moment of horror churning in his guts until a hand curls at the back of his neck and nudges him forward.
It feels like something going right for the first time. Like something tilting just a little bit to the left - and everything is falling smoothly into place.
“It doesn’t matter to me,” Aaron breathes to his lips, “You’re still Call. You’re still my best friend.”
Call only nods, noses brushing, and leans forward again. “Help me up,” he says, after. He looks around and there’s still traces of defeat and shame etched into the lines of his face, the sag of his shoulders, but he follows with, “We have to help Tamara and Jasper.”
It’s a small victory, maybe, but Aaron’s willing to take it.