My thoughts, they are wandering; scrolling; rewinding to a few desperate days in the past. Days when I’d flung myself across the bed, face down, in afternoon’s quiet and wept tears into covers.
And days newer, and fresh.
I’d nearly done it. Come right within hairsbreadth of walking away. Of shelving it just for a season. “I’m almost there.” I’d said it to Mister, then said it to Friend. “It’s too hard. I think I’m done writing.”
I turn toward my Keurig, its blue lights a-shining, and slip filter, all happy, into reservoir. Punching the button, I remember my cry. Recall the words that I told Him. All those months, years ago when the fire, it was burning, and I reached out and grabbed to His hem.
Weeping, baby sleeping, I’d said it aloud, “I will not let go ’til You bless me. I won’t let You go ’til You heal me straight through, all the way down to the deepest.”
Beloved Machine’s spurting into my cup, and I inhale the hot, salted caramel. Remembering desperation, that one sincere plea, and the incredible ways that He’d answered.
He’d taken me seriously, this one desperate girl, and He’d set right straight to the healing. Now, years later, I could name the tools that He’d used.
He’d used tight finances and uncertainty there. Used a job that kept me confined here. He wouldn’t release me from the job I’d once loved and instead began peeling off layers.
He’d used my past woundings and the unpacking of those. Used my own insecurities to drive me. He’d used my good husband, and He’d sent strong, wise friends. He’d given me spiritual mothers.
He’d used all of those, and then used one more. He’d “given” me a prodigal son. ‘Cause He knew.
He knew how to answer. Knew how to bring healing. He’d taught me of joy in the furnace. He’d taught peace in the floodplains. Brought great rest-oration. And He’d tracked fire’s heat every moment.
Hands wrapped around mug, steam rising like prayers, I’m hushed. Standing, still. Overwhelmed ’cause Father, He’s speaking. He’s whispering close secrets, tracing plans for the future; showing glimpses of miracles, of glory.
My heart’s quiet, overflowing with joy for the sovereignty of Father and His goodness. The dreams of Creator, they near-stop my breath for their bigness and wildness and color. For now, we whisper, Father and I, and that story’s for the telling long later.
But now–oh, now, I shall worship. Shall give up my thanks. Shall sit in His presence every moment. Thankful, so thankful that my one desperate prayer got His whole, undivided attention.
“I will not let go ’til You heal me, and bless.”
And Father, He’s said to keep writing…