I read books by authors who talk of lions and pits and snowy days. My words fall out in the mornings before eyes ever open. I reach for it, needing to see what it says and how have I missed this all these years? Read over and over, dates stand written beside it. I have emptied more ink pens in the past two years than well, ever. I don't think I ever did it before now. I say prayers over cucumber slices and folded up napkins for the faces that will consume the lunches I make. I say thank you God for this laundry still here. I am still here. I smile and wrinkle my nose sometimes because I have coffee and time and my big comfy bed to settle in while I write my words. I have texts and conversations and tear stained reminders of notes and letters. I have two, three when we count the four legged one, that literally fill the walls with their beings. They belong here. They are my own. This complete isn't complete, yet it is complete, just as is. And that makes my head swim most days. He whispers assurance, grace, blessings. The end sometimes is the beginning. The thing He hates perhaps is allowed for something He loves. For what will be, not what is right now. It's school that teaches me always something new about myself when I don't even understand what exactly He's asking me to do just yet. It's good days, bad days, days that make you know why You are alive, when you get to participate in this thing He calls us to.
Name it.
This is my life.
This is joy in whatever way it decides to show itself. This is me. Thankful.
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