I do not know how I got here. I do know there was corner to turn, that I was anticipating the corner, that I could not see it until I got there, and that I made the turn when I got to it.
Yup. It was in the pain. In the ache. In the trial. I made the turn because I needed to be moving in a new direction, on a new path, with a new destination somewhere ahead. And I was not alone. The Church was with me. Thank you, Father, for your Church.
I do not wish that pain for anyone. But I do pray that the signs for the exit ramps and entrance ramps will be properly illuminated at just the right times, and that we will all have the humility to give ourselves over to the service of a navigator.
For me the process of getting here took a stripping down to essentials. When everything is heavy, it gets easier to identify things that need to be discarded and abandoned. I do not believe it makes it any easier to release them. That they are no longer worth carrying just becomes clear. Clear as crystal.
So I wake up one day clinging to my King. My hands feel like they have the habit in muscle memory. So I have been clinging long enough to develop the hands for it. Might be like developing hinds feet for high places.
If my hands have developed into hands made by practice to cling to God, it also means that He is faithful to be there to be clung to. He has been within reach every time. He has persisted in being there for the duration of each encounter.
Every other handhold tried has proven to be unavailable and/or made temporary by my depending on it. I have awakened, having forsaken false hopes. Unreliable reeds.
I see new places that promise safety and rest without holiness. But, somehow, my hands are in the habit of clinging where they have never been betrayed.
And it smells so good here, Daddy.
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