The Gift of Pain!

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The aftertaste of sorrow lingers. Still existent but no longer all consumed by its grip I manage to gasp for breath. Moments at a time, life begins its return. Coffee with a friend, here. Date with my husband, there. An unforced smile manages to break through on occasion. The thickness of grief prevented it before. But Light has broken and darkness is not so black as it was. Deep gashes and slashes in the soul begin to merge together again. Because this place is not foreign to me, I have confidence that time will heal. First one step, then another, each stronger than the one before. Though a sense of “why” may never be made, purpose will be found.  He promises it. I trust. It’s faint, but there. This pain will be a gift.

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Blessed! “I do not think it means what you think it means!”

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Sitting among a group of peers, in true “round-table” fashion, each had a story of hollow wombs and vacant arms coupled with the slightly unconventional way of filling the desire, deep-seated need, for children.  Some early in their journey, others veterans of the system, we each divulged details of the miraculous way God had built our families.  Conversation was deep, enjoyable and even beneficial until one comment stopped my heart, to which I mentally had to force myself to breathe.  Three words were uttered that crushed my spirit, heart and soul and provoked me to evaluate my faith.
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