Unwielded Words

If I used my words well, like my dear friend urges;

Then our conversation would have looked different.

If I had been obedient,

To the gentle tugging

On my twisted insides,

Maybe we both could have grown in understanding.

But instead,

I spoke swiftly with a stammer,

Figited too much,

Rushed through my answers,

Avoiding your eye contact.

The consequences are real.

Sitting here, wishing I’d been bolder;

That my normally brazen nature;

Filled with unfiltered ideas hadn’t fallen short.

Surely I’ll make excuses

Because I can’t stand the guilt,

Or swallow the truth for that matter.

For now the pendulum swings

Between disappointment and hope

Knowing it doesn’t rely on my ability to perform

Wishing it was easier to tell the truth;

The truth about You.

Unnecessary Campaigns

A strategy brought into play in our tangled tango of words;

a calculated counter measure to your step forward.

Even your backwards movements require protection.

Repetitive use has caused problems.

An inability to sense.

A distorted image of self.

A heart that has learned to brace for the worst,

knowing that the truth is always costly.

Side-stepped compliments and ill-timed humor,

Even omitted wisdom,

They’re all just defense mechanisms. 

Delicate Reassurance

I rocked a baby to sleep on Sunday evening.  I held her little body in my arms and quietly hummed a mishmash of lullabies as she balanced delicately between asleep and awake. When I was sure of her slumber, I called in my husband and we prayed for her. We spoke quiet intercessions over the little girl we have grown to love. We asked our Father to give her peaceful sleep and happy dreams. We asked for little things that on the large scale don’t mean much. We prayed for her parent’s guidance and then we ended as we always have with a request that she would grow healthy and strong, to serve and love Him.

She didn’t move a muscle the entire time. Normally she fights the sleep and fusses when I transition from the rocking chair to the crib but not this time. The only noise she made was a gentle sigh when I laid her down, a small surrender from her tired little body. It was beautiful, and I left the room feeling refreshed and thankful. I was thankful that she went down easy because to be honest, I was tired too. Thankful that we had the rest of the evening to relax and that her parents also could relax on their night out, knowing that she was fast asleep.

I didn’t realize until later that for the first time in five months of watching her and putting her to sleep once or twice a month, I left the room not feeling wanting. Prior to this evening I had always fought a hint of jealousy and dissatisfaction. As hard as I tried and wrestled, I always felt frustrated and sad that I didn’t have my own child to rock and hum to, to pray over and protect, to shepherd and love. That night however, I left the room with peace and joy and thankfulness and I realized that the gentle sigh, the small surrender that she gave as I laid her down was not the only one that took place. I had made a small or maybe not so small surrender of my own.

As I mulled it over I remembered something that the little girl’s mom told me recently. That God would give me the children that I’m supposed to love, a truth that she had clung to when she was in the exact same position as myself. At the time I had brushed it off, thinking to myself that it was easier said than done. However, as I sat there in my small surrender I thought and believed that if this was it that I would be okay with that. If this is the way I’m supposed to love Your children then so be it.