I sit in silence and fill pages
So there’s Thanksgiving week, and I cook and clean and host and decorate and cook some more. And then comes the week after. We eat leftovers, and I close up shop on my blog for a few weeks to create some space. Time space. Heart space.
I sit in silence and read books, set timers and fill pages. Paper ones. Spiral bound.
My hand cramps. I shake it out and keep going.
I write raw longing for Him. Longing to really know myself as known by Him. Intimately, profoundly, all-emcompassingly. Seen. Wrapped. Embraced. Covered. Held. Secure.
Safe in Him.
Maybe if I knew myself in that light, I’d be braver. If I knew myself in that light, I’d be less terrified of exposure. Less terrified of being seen for who I am, way down in my core, and rejected.
Maybe I’d feel less vulnerable.
The timer nudges me to put the pen down and I do, suddenly finding myself cold. Chilled. I shiver and I can’t help but think my chill is due every bit as much to feeling soul-naked as it is to the snowy cold outside my house.
My girl wakes up for a bottle. I feed her rocking in the dark, and I contemplate the season.
Advent. The waiting days.
Waiting for the coming of the Christ child. The King of Kings who came tiny. Unfathomable power and majesty poured into the body of a helpless, naked babe in a manger. Vulnerability at its rawest.
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