I kneel down by the side of my bed on the cushion someone dear gave to me this year for Christmas. ("I love you, Someone!") His peace quickly overtakes me, and the silence that fills my room wraps around me. Comfort. I think I ought to pray, but no words come so I stay on my knees and listen. My breath is loud in that sea of silence, and I reach for His hand.
Focus. My mind keeps going to the mess I've got in the house right now, and how I feel a bit crowded in my heart by it. Chaos everywhere, and here I am on the floor of my bedroom almost drowning in the luxury of quiet. I think about the emails I received first thing to write "just a bit more", and "the deadline is tomorrow", and "would you mind?".
Focus and smile. I wonder if people out there know that I write in sentence fragments and live a broken life and that I am working on the most impossible project.
One that will burn me to the ground.
I stay on my knees, still and listening. Still. I focus now on the face of Jesus, and I cup His scarred hand across my cheek. In my mind. I am bowed low just waiting for Him, and a bit afraid I might fall asleep when He says...
"Thank You for spending time with me."
He breathes milk and honey right full unto my face, and I lay my head down on the yet unmade bed, and sob. I am becoming like this bed... uncovered, and if He weren't to show up just now, I think I would die of shame. My writing. For the whole wide world to see this one trembling, hurting heart. The way I write in bare sentences because I am bared to the bone. Skeletal words hung together by this unfurling trust in Jesus Christ. Great gusts catching me up into, "Let it be as You have said, Lord."
As I open the pages of my bible, I find my fingers caressing paper. Barest skin that once hung on a tree saying, "Come. Follow Me."