Jesus, it was a hard day.
It was a hard day closing off a hard week.
It’s strange—and wonderful, too—how the same cluster of hours and days can rightly be dubbed both brutal and blessed.
Lord, this intimacy with you has been so much fun. I love walking in sync with your Spirit, one thing at a time, stepping into moments foreseen, graced, laced with destiny and purpose. Holding your hand is the best part of life.
That this joy could unfold during the same grueling marathon of migraines, meds, brain fog and tears is a mystery to me. I suppose this could be my thorn, like Paul’s, though this valley has cut deeper into my psyche than most. Today, there wasn’t much of me left, but your grace has always been sufficient, and you never run out.
This weekend’s sermon should be interesting; it will be the unique fruit born of the union between my pain and your grace. I’m not ready to speak it, nor will I be—humanly speaking, at least. I won’t be able to get my head around this one like I usually do, and I guess that’s okay. Here, too, your grace is and will be enough.
I’m afraid, though, of waking up tomorrow with another headache. Afraid of the weather forecast, of the havoc rebounding temperatures wreak on my skull. In the quiet of this moment, the pain is minimal. Thank you for that.
Meet me, sweet Jesus, in the moment of my waking. Kiss my forehead, let me breathe your sweet breath and cling to your breast like a child rescued from the maw of fire and devastation. Sing to me, and let your song become the melody of my heart. Have mercy on my ragged body, this sagging resolve, these punished nerves. May you be my all in all.
Amen. And good night.