wise as serpents and harmless as doves
I got a letter from my brother today. He told me on his darkest days, what helped most was to praise God and play his guitar. For a guy whose made a lot of foolish choices, he's become pretty wise in the Holy Spirit school of prison.
On my darkest days, I find comfort in the psalms. They have always been my go-to place. I'm not one who wakes up brightly and says "This is the day the Lord has made, let us rejoice in it!" If that is in the psalms, guess I just contradicted myself. Oh, well. My mornings are about pouring my heart out like water and then telling the Lord all the things I know He is: Good, faithful, merciful, loving - unfailingly so.
So I'm taking my brother's advice and writing more because I love to write. I haven't wanted to write. And it's been a dark day.
As I drive to pick my boys up from school, I head down a road that faces the new Seton hospital in Kyle, adorned with a glorious giant cross that looms across the horizon. It's all I see. And the thought I hear is "I want to go to there."
The thought that is like a cloud as small as a man's hand.
When I get better, I want to go to the hospital. Taking with me the joy I'm waiting on, expecting to show up soon. I want to give it out in the hallways, the rooms that loom dark but with Jesus on the scene will become bright.
The idea of ministering to sick, dying people sounds too hard. The thought of an introvert striking up conversations with strangers... all I can say is that it must be one of God's ideas for me. After being medicated, zombified, sedated and zoned out during these last few months, I have a huge empathy for those on medication.
And these arms are achingly empty after the end of a long season where God allowed me to be a part of a lot of spiritual mothering and birthing. The ache is so deep it can only be because a River runs through it, to borrow a phrase.
One day I'll get there. And Jesus will be with me, laughing, joking like he always does, slapping me in the stomach to make me laugh. And I'll continue to wonder why He's allowed to go so many places barefoot.
On my darkest days, I find comfort in the psalms. They have always been my go-to place. I'm not one who wakes up brightly and says "This is the day the Lord has made, let us rejoice in it!" If that is in the psalms, guess I just contradicted myself. Oh, well. My mornings are about pouring my heart out like water and then telling the Lord all the things I know He is: Good, faithful, merciful, loving - unfailingly so.
So I'm taking my brother's advice and writing more because I love to write. I haven't wanted to write. And it's been a dark day.
As I drive to pick my boys up from school, I head down a road that faces the new Seton hospital in Kyle, adorned with a glorious giant cross that looms across the horizon. It's all I see. And the thought I hear is "I want to go to there."
The thought that is like a cloud as small as a man's hand.
When I get better, I want to go to the hospital. Taking with me the joy I'm waiting on, expecting to show up soon. I want to give it out in the hallways, the rooms that loom dark but with Jesus on the scene will become bright.
The idea of ministering to sick, dying people sounds too hard. The thought of an introvert striking up conversations with strangers... all I can say is that it must be one of God's ideas for me. After being medicated, zombified, sedated and zoned out during these last few months, I have a huge empathy for those on medication.
And these arms are achingly empty after the end of a long season where God allowed me to be a part of a lot of spiritual mothering and birthing. The ache is so deep it can only be because a River runs through it, to borrow a phrase.
One day I'll get there. And Jesus will be with me, laughing, joking like he always does, slapping me in the stomach to make me laugh. And I'll continue to wonder why He's allowed to go so many places barefoot.