I’m breaking from the words which struggle to come. A pause to come back to the free flow of blogging. A hope that writing unhindered will bring about the magic.
Yet I suspect it’s not magic that I need, but patience on the words to work their way through me. One thing I am learning with all of my being: God is in no certain hurry.
I pull at my memories and skills, trying to conjure a polished product from my repertoire of wordsmithing tricks. But I haven’t written what needs to be said yet, and I know this.
Advent, too, is upon me, and I feel it’s pregnant pause. It’s widdling work, gently growing, inch by inch within my heart. What Advent bestows is a hope seed, right in the middle of pain. It says, Anticipate. Percolate. Worry not. Wait. Oh, just wait.
I feel it. This story working in and through me. It’s stretching tight muscles, churning up unresolved pain, and inviting me into a reliance which grates against my fierce independence. I’ve been wanting to tell this story for a long, long while and I will, bit by bit, in whatever form God provides. Already, that form is changing, and so must I.
If I had the emotion to convey, I would. Simply put, I am in need. Of direction and focus, experience and healing. I show up to the words. The routine of lighting a candle and pumping up the playlist plods alongside the doing.
I believe what I am writing will be helpful to someone someday, and with God’s help, transformational. Humbly, I work. Patiently, I wait.
To the outsider, there may seem so much lag time, staring out the window, taking walks, and napping. But this is the pace of a story in process, a work which I am really working on very little. It is working on me.
Despite the best words’ blessed arrival to show up on the page where I want them, I take joy by the hand and listen to her whispers. I will relish what I have been given today.
I trust He is remaking you too, waking you up to a sacred space burning in your chest.