Photo Credit: Mirella

Four months of silence.

It was one of many things God required during the winter–the death of my words. Rather, the death of my validation in you reading my words.

How will you see who I am if I can’t tell you with words, written or spoken?

How would you know me? If you don’t know my heart, do I still have value? Do my words have value if you never hear them?

As dust collected in the spaces of my keyboard, pain collected in the cracks of my heart. Fear mushroomed in that void between my heart and lips where words once flowed freely…. I will live unseen.

But he never took his eyes off me.

Several weeks ago, when he released me to speak, I wasn’t sure that I wanted to.

Over the winter I filled half a journal and two yellow Legal Pads with words. Words that only come from the deepest place of honesty because no one will ever read them–words that are mine and his.

Unfiltered, unedited, unjustified.

Just heartbroken, because I’m not convinced that his eyes will be enough for me.

Still, love holds me fast, fragile, like a gossamer web.

Soon I will tell you the story of this winter.

About the ways his Spirit underscored words I penned seven months ago, about the Aha!-moments long foreshadowed, about pain’s strikethrough of my heart (and mercy’s parenthetical encapsulation), about joy like a forest of !!!!!! when I understood the intricacies of my story within his–after plodding for so long like an …, to find that he never writes a plot with holes!–and I will tell you about love waiting to hem me in at the end of every unspoken sentence like a  .



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