"But it is the spirit in a man, the breath of the Almighty, that gives him understanding." Job 32:8
I coveted rest as a new mother. Torn between sleep or washing the growing mounds of laundry and dishes, I followed the veteran mothers' advice and chose sleep. At least I tried to sleep. The apartment was quiet except for my son's rhythmic breathing coming from the baby monitor on my nightstand. I heard every inhale, every exhale, every rustle of the covers, every babble, every whimper, even the silence.
The silence was the worst thing because it startled me into complete consciousness. I'd stop breathing myself until he took his next breath. If it didn't come fast enough I'd jump out of bed, rush into the nursery and watch for his back to rise and fall before I was able to return to my own slumber. Finally, desperate enough for sleep, I turned off the monitor and trusted God to watch over my baby and wake me when he cried.
I no longer lose sleep over the silence in the nursery, but rather the cries of my heart.
Two years ago, God gave me a burden to write a book for daughters of divorce as a guide toward the rescue, restoration and release of their wounded hearts through forgiveness. I've written three chapters, sat with two publishers who initially loved the proposal but promptly rejected it, joined a writers' group and rewrote two:three chapters. It was my mission this year to rewrite the proposal, the three chapters and work on completing the manuscript. But, life took many detours and it hasn't worked out the way I had envisioned.
Now, I find myself outside of heaven's door listening for God's rhythm. I question, "Are you still there, God? Are you breathing?" I take a deep breath and hold. Time passes. Writing is hard. Words won't come. My face turns blue.
I coveted rest as a new mother. Torn between sleep or washing the growing mounds of laundry and dishes, I followed the veteran mothers' advice and chose sleep. At least I tried to sleep. The apartment was quiet except for my son's rhythmic breathing coming from the baby monitor on my nightstand. I heard every inhale, every exhale, every rustle of the covers, every babble, every whimper, even the silence.
The silence was the worst thing because it startled me into complete consciousness. I'd stop breathing myself until he took his next breath. If it didn't come fast enough I'd jump out of bed, rush into the nursery and watch for his back to rise and fall before I was able to return to my own slumber. Finally, desperate enough for sleep, I turned off the monitor and trusted God to watch over my baby and wake me when he cried.
I no longer lose sleep over the silence in the nursery, but rather the cries of my heart.
Two years ago, God gave me a burden to write a book for daughters of divorce as a guide toward the rescue, restoration and release of their wounded hearts through forgiveness. I've written three chapters, sat with two publishers who initially loved the proposal but promptly rejected it, joined a writers' group and rewrote two:three chapters. It was my mission this year to rewrite the proposal, the three chapters and work on completing the manuscript. But, life took many detours and it hasn't worked out the way I had envisioned.
Now, I find myself outside of heaven's door listening for God's rhythm. I question, "Are you still there, God? Are you breathing?" I take a deep breath and hold. Time passes. Writing is hard. Words won't come. My face turns blue.
"Breathe!" God says. "Breathe in. Breathe out. Breathe in. Breathe out."
I catch God's rhythm. Clarity comes. More lessons learned. Wisdom comes. More words are birthed. The goal is no less but the journey is in step with the rhythm of God's breath in me.
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