MI

I sit on a mattress on the floor in an empty apartment home 200 feet from where I'd rather be, and 200 miles from where I belong.

I look around. Not in the dark room with the big black and pink comforter hanging in the window blocking the grey cloudy morning outside the window. i look around inside my heart. at my life. Searching the face of God.

What are You telling me?

When each night came to an end Zeek and I shuffled over to this place. I double checked each door leading out, and then closed us into the corner of a bathroom bedroom area with the latch locks inside. I pulled out our own blankets, stuffed animals, and comforts of the small entourage of an Apple store inventory we carry with us when we travel.

Something... anything to break the silence in where I hear His warning sound. Again.

This couldn't be. But I know it is.

People live like this, and less. Much much less. 

I pray out loud as my little boy soaks in the duck taped tub with a jar opener for a drain cover. i pray for our night, our hearts, our health and safety and full rest. 

Then I pray the clearing of any lurking evil in each room. I claim Him and call in all that He will send. Jesus, Holy Spirit, Angels, hedges, protection, peace, security, health... all the while, in the back of my head layering prayers of forgiveness and covering in the case that I might be freaking out the future of my son. I beg the One Living God that my kid will not be cut with the same jaded edge I've seen on the masks of a Levi I love so deeply... and a Tony, and an Eric. Wounded by the misrepresentation of the body, walking a shaded path through pain and perceived abandonment dealt by the hands of the men/spiritual leaders they've entrusted themselves to.

  

I Plead that Truth will be solid to Ezekiel all the days of his life. 

Truth. That his mother could call on Jesus out loud, first and foremost, in the darkness. 

Truth. That Jesus is there. 

That she could arm herself and her child in His promises and see out preying demons in the name of Jesus. And that demons who would have otherwise spent the night hit the streets running. 

That we can have night after night of safety, peace, and full rest in Him, one after the next.

And I feel the Water running over me again. 

This could be. This is. What garbage dump parents cling to, and so much more.

I look in the mirror above a plastic vanity in the bathroom and I hear the words my Dad spoke the night before; 

"...when you look in the mirror and you are shocked to see that old person standing there..."

and I am shocked to see that broken, tear streaked, swollen faced, slowly becoming woman of God, standing here.

And I ask it again. What are You telling me?

As i'm anticipating the falling death of the star in me,

trusting Him to take me out as gently as can be,

I pinch-check that I am still where I vowed to remain these past days.

Waiting and listening, as movable as I can leave my stubborn self to the hands of a Master extreme vessel renovator.

I am good and solid broken.

moving me

I was sitting at the table, having some unusual computer issues.

I sighed and half jokingly exasperated,

"what is going on in my life right now?"

Zeek, who was sitting at the far end of the table 

looked up at me and sweetly, gently reminded,

"God says, 'be thankful in every circumstance...'" 

And this has been a time when God has shown that to us.

Sowed that into our hearts.

First, what it looked like to be grateful.

And now, with the orphan and the widow (James1:27) in the forefront 

of our minds there is a different direction tugging.

In every decision. With every move we make.

There is a head-in-the-sand element to my lifestyle.

And I see His prints all over the pieces of our past few months.

I feel His writing on my skin.

I breathe the aftertaste of what He's been feeding us.

And we are heads moving.

__________________________________________

Treat yourself to "a holy experience" and read

this woman on her journey of faith and love as she visits 

her sponsored daughter in Guatemala this week.

Read her past entries back to the post where

her nine year old son tried on (as a size reference) 

the pink dress his mother chose for his Guatemalan sister, Xiomara.

Her ministry is always moving me

away from sand and into Son.

Blessings