Hope is a Dangerous Thing
When I was a little girl, I wrote. More often than not, I wrote stories about the way I wanted things to be. Sometimes I expressed my feelings through songs and poems. Abba wove the love of words into my little-girl heart so many years ago and I shared those expressions freely with those around me.
As I grew up, life got busy: I met my counterpart, children were made and loved; the world marched in and my adult-heart became sensible as it does for so many of us. I learned to be careful, because sometimes, open hearts get burned.
This world isn’t really made for vulnerability, is it?
Three years ago, Abba whispered life back to me:
Just write. He said.
His invitation was tangible; precious and private.
Once more, words began pouring like wine. I was reminded of David, the Shepherd-boy sinner with the king-sized heart.
"My heart is overflowing with a good theme; I recite my composition concerning the King; My tongue is the pen of a ready writer."
In the quiet place of my communion with Abba, I found childlike joy once more.
These past few years, Father has been removing the layers that life had added to my little-girl heart. He has been holding out His hand and leading me out into the wide snowy fields and the open skies of a life lived brave.
The more I learn of Abba, the more I am able to let go of disappointed expectations and lessons learned through pain rather than love. The more willing I am to follow.
It’s not easy.
Do you like hiding?
I have always felt safest in small, hidden places. Womb-like spaces. When I'm afraid, I seek the comfort of a quilt, of closed curtains and warm drinks. The more I can close my environment around myself like a blanket, the safer I feel.
Can you relate?
Father is counter-intuitive. He gently removes all that is false security. Peeling back layers until all that remains is trust.
As I walk the Winter with it’s persistent shedding and it’s challenge of letting go of all that has obscured my sight, I find, it is not I who writes His story, but He who writes mine.
These journeys are rarely what we expect them to be.
It can be so very painful to release ourselves into His hands once more. Life has hurt. It has shaped our actions, our attitudes and proved itself to be a hostile environment.
But this Father of ours, always comes to us. He whispers invitations and promises of restoration and impossible dreams in our ears. He comes to those with children-hearts and bodies of earth-and-clay.
After the wind and earthquake and fire of life has passed there is a still small voice.
He says, "Follow me."
When we say, 'I don't have what it takes.
He asks us to open out hand.
In it, we find nothing, and He whispers,
"This is all I need."