Girls eight, nine, ten competing for their needs to be touched. Reached. Loved. Screaming for someone to notice them. Look them in the face. Does anyone think their lives are important? Heart in throat all week. I am weak. I wonder what in the world I am doing here. Kid's camp. Climbing wall. Zip line. Ropes course bringing out all that is coarse in them. In me.
Oh, God, what to do with all the brokenness in these lovely little girls? What of their futures? Why would You put me here? With them? Can they not see right through to my own cuts, some still bleeding? I see their hearts, and mine is exposed. Oh, give me running shoes!
Coming home to myself. And, ugh! I hate it! I wonder why in the world I feel so much, wonder why it's so hard on the Potter's wheel. Why I am reeling from all that spinning, and sick to my stomach at all the wet slimy mud of me. He throws and smashes and presses. THIS is the evolution of man. From THIS sludge. HIS. I am created. And recreated. I close my eyes tight. Wait for Him. Trying hard to see what He sees. Trying to believe that He can make something beautiful. And wondering why He still keeps this up. Why He pursues me so. You. Us. Why He keeps taking our hands and saying, "Come. Follow Me.". God is scary sometimes.
Home from camp, but not. Experiencing Jesus reach His rescuing hand to three little girls leaves me trembling as I type this. I was there. I was there! And so the wheel goes 'round, and I hold my head, even as Jesus holds my feet. To the wheel. To the line. To His life. How He holds all things in the power of His hands. Me. My girls at camp. Taking us and shaping us.
Into His image,
Bernadette
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