Frayed edges, stained center (outdated by American standards,) the throw rug beneath displayed the wear of many feet that had paced before me. Arms crossed and tucked in close, not for the chill in the enclosed concrete room, but an effort to contain the emotions with in me. My third child, escorted by a dark haired woman in a floral smock, was delivered.
A Painful Kind of Love.Standard
Depleted of vices to hide behind, raw and real are all that remain. Perhaps it is where He wants me. My true authentic self, helpless before God. I’m okay with that. For a long period of seasons, I was anything but. Yet now, even a midst the ruins of my soul, the chaos of my existence, there is peace and it is Him others see, not myself. Grateful for that as life seems to be in shambles.
Twenty-five days ago, a moment of anguish that towers above all others crushed my soul. The drive over the pass was non-eventful, even quite pleasant. Which made the endeavor that much more unbearable.