Curled Toes

I coil inside of myself, shrinking from the mass that grows larger and larger, cornering me into the darkest recesses of my mind. Black and poisonous it bubbles, threatening to spill beyond the confines of my existence. I tremble in fear, folding deeper and deeper into myself, trying to hide from its power, begging whatever deity would listen that it won’t take notice and consume what little semblance of me was still left. Even my toes curl beneath me, trying to look smaller; needlessly so, for in the face of this massive force I was merely a speck--a blight in its consuming progress. In the depths of my despondency, I cry out. ‘Oh God, am I so insignificant that you would subject me--forsake me--to this?’

‘Oh no.’ says a tender voice, and I’m stilled. No light penetrates the darkness, no saving grace cuts in, but the unwavering whisper pervades: ‘No. You are mighty, mightier than even this. And it is your very significance that engenders this trial necessary. For God does not give the monumental to the miniscule. No, he gives it to the strong. He is teaching you to grow bigger, even bigger than this.’

I look to the growing blackness and silently weep. ‘It hurts’ I whimper.

The voice kindly responds, ‘As it was with every person who has ever grown into something great.’ I’m left then. Alone, still cowering before the festering, putrid disease, but the voice echoes in my subconscious, the even smaller corners of my mind than those I find myself in now. And with those echoes, my toes uncurl just a touch.