A Choice

Whether short or perpetual, we all have seasons of waiting.  Waiting for the husband, the child, the score, the acceptance letter, the yes or the no, the next thing to do, etc.  In the past few years, I have seen a few periods of waiting that, at times, tend to get the best of me.  I often want to jump ahead to what I think is next, only to reminded rather quickly that I have to pay attention to what is in front of me.  If I don’t do that, jumping ahead to the next thing only leaves disaster in its wake.  Thus, I settle back in to the waiting and wondering, the praying and the pondering.

I came across this writing the other day by Holly Gerth and thought it was rather profound.  Prior to this writing, she states:  “After a particularly painful season in my life, I walked into the bathroom at an office and burst into tears.  My emotions caught me off guard.  I had been telling everyone I was just fine!”  I’ve been there, and I’ve done that – more than once!  Be refreshed by these words and let them soak into your spirit and into your heart.

Hot tears slam my cheeks, slide down, rivers of unbidden emotion.

I’m shocked at their appearance – hot lava exploding from a mountain that had just been covered in daisies.

I slip into a bathroom stall, place my head in my hands, sniffle into a square of paper.  That year … so good, so hard.

I felt more like a warrior than a writer.

My heart has the scars to prove it.

But then, softly, a whisper comes, “Put down your sword.”

And I notice, for the first time, how my heart has stood in ready-to-fight position for so long, stiff, waiting to dodge the next blow.

I relent.  And something inside clatters to the ground.  I see the wounds, still fresh, not noticed in the heat of the battle.  I touch them tentatively.  Cover protectively.

Then again, softly within…

“If I will wash your feet, will I not wash your wounds?”

I have a choice.  Drop my guard or guard my hurts.

I choose the first.

And His hand touches all that aches, His voice whispers truth, His love wipes around, over, down.  It stings a little.  I flinch with old fear.  But slowly I relax, lean into Him, remember the time before the war, and I know it is finished.

No longer a warrior.

I’m a child, small, safe, with Daddy’s hands making it all better.

Victory.

Surrender.

I leave the bathroom stall, finally, look into clear eyes in the mirror.

And I am never the same again.  

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