It’s a silent night, yet all is noisy. The chirps of crickets clash with the clanging cymbals in my head. I find little rest and mostly confusion. What should be a calming aroma of peace as I gladly sit and think and pour out my soul is, for the time being, an apparent sea of wreckage.
All is out of order.
A million varying voices claim truth. Conversations achieve nothing but miscommunication. Routines once loved are unusually unappealing. Long-sought pain relief reverses. Emotions are senseless. The greatest intentions are met with the greatest distrust. My body accesses some strange sort of freak mode. And on top of it all, when I’m struggling to find my way, I am gifted two “children,” as though I have brain cells remaining. As though I have the sanity to help them walk when I can hardly stand on my own.
And when all is stripped away, I find that which remains.
Precious words of hope from a friend.
Timely intercession so sweetly offered on my behalf.
The Book on my shelf: my only Anchor in the storm.
Its God, who also happens to be the Author of my days.
And thus, my joy – ever full.
This is what remains.
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