writing for five minutes, not editing a thing, and linking up with the gypsy mama.
i used to think what we did, the labels we used for ourselves, were what defined us.
i came to learn, and am still learning, that they don’t.
i clench tiny fists and ask, “where’s my heart? who is me?”
who is me, indeed.
me is seeking, stumbling, chasing a jewish fisherman who calls Himself Jesus, who claims me as His. and one whisper from His lips is enough: “My child,” He says, a smile on His face, and that’s enough to know this indelible, intangible, indescribable me-ness is just that.
is there any better definition, any better identity, than that? than His, just His?
there’s a way He speaks truth to my heart, rains mercy on my parched and bitter soul, that’s only Him, love notes squirreled away hustle and bustle and darn it, i’m late – again – and i don’t know what way that is, but if He knows me, He must know me, deeply.