(The Rib Wasn't Enough to Save) Our Hearts.

My dear, dear sisters, I know the curse. I know your desire will be for him and he will rule over you, I know. I watch it, I live it, I get it. I too, am a woman. I too, have measured my value by the light of approval (more often, the lack) that sparks (or fails to) in a man's eyes. I have tailored my beauty to the rhythm of their compliments, I have weighed the words (or silence)--I have found, always found, myself wanting.

But, when. I stop looking at me, stop looking at them, and start looking at you, I see something else. The grace in your step, the strength in your eyes. It causes me to wonder. To catch my breath, to pause and stare. I see you, and I say: My God! Your daughters are lovely.

I once burned with jealousy, to see your beauty. You were filled to the brim with beautiful things--I found each and every one. And I hated every wonderful piece of your heart, every flawless line that shaped your face. I despised you, because I saw the way you drew their eyes away from me.

But, then. I met the Lover who broke the curse. He stripped away my shame and clothed me in (such perfect!) light. He whispered, My darling, there is no flaw, and I saw myself (reborn). I saw who I was, who I am and will be.

What I saw was all-beautiful, and I knew I would never need their eyes again.

And now I see you. I see your loveliness, and I do not fear it, anymore. We are more lovely together; we are symphonies and tapestries, we are bright-burning souls that shine like stars.

But it breaks my heart, beautiful ones, to see the way you tear your (beautiful, beautiful) selves apart, tugging your heartstrings from the seams of every doubt and insecurity that haunts the stitches of your scars--the remnant of the wounds their arms (or absence) burst open. It breaks my heart, beautiful ones, that you do not see your self, but only the distorted reflection in the darkened mirrors of their eyes.

Sisters, I beg you: See what I see. Look into the Lover's eyes, and believe the words He promised me: You are altogether lovely; you are altogether free.

You Had a Bad Day.

There are bad days. There are days when things go wrong, or everything does, pushing your heart into perpetual, erratic flight, and stirring a heavy ache that clings to your temples. There are days that you try to push through, but end up blocking out with piles of blankets as you nestle into the welcoming lap of your mattress, and sleep. Emotionally exhausted, physically spent.

But there's something else about bad days, and if we could remember it, I think we'd discover the loads we carry are impossibly light. Because here's the thing about bad days: they are ripe with opportunities for grace.

Yesterday was one of my bad days. I had been mistakenly informed that I wasn't working, when I was, resulting in a surprise call from my manager as I sat at home, still in my pajamas. I arrived at work disheveled and half an hour late. After work, as I drove home, not paying the slightest attention to my speedometer, I was pulled over and given my first ticket, which will most certainly come with a boost in insurance payment. By the time I went to bed, I felt as if someone had pulled the plug on my heart, draining every last ounce of energy from it.

But you know what else I remember about yesterday? I remember how God calmed my heart when my manager called, bringing peace in the midst of a mild panic attack as He whispered, This isn't your fault. I remember driving with my windows down, sunshine blazing down from blue sky, turning the music up loud in joyful noise as I sang the Earth is Yours. I remember sitting shakily in my car as red-and-blue lights flashed behind me, and God looked down, not with eyes of disappointment but of love, and promised, I will provide. I remember saying aloud afterward, as I drove toward downtown, "You're going to have to do better than that, demons. I'm still happy." I remember swinging at the waterfront, singing more quietly than before, You know me, and feeling God wrap His arms around me.

And as I write it all down, I realize once again what I already knew--even on the worst days, God's grace outweighs the bad. Every time. All it takes is for us to open our eyes to see it, and open our hands to receive it.

Dear God,

Thank You for not giving me what I want. Thank You for refusing me when I plead, and whine, and question You. Thank You for never giving in, even when my heart falls to pieces in my hands.

Because looking back, I can see. How the things I wanted would not have satisfied. How the alteration of one detail of my life might have brought me to a different place than this. (For the place You have brought me is beautiful.)

You didn't give me what I wanted, because there was something better. I didn't know it, couldn't believe it, at the time. I crawled in the dust, parched with thirst. I clung to the hem of your robe, tugging, and begged for Egypt. For the place where my human reasoning told me I would be safe, though in reality it was only bondage, in reality the Enemy would find me there.

You could have let me go. You could have given me over to the fickleness of my heart. Only, You didn't. Instead, You said No, again and again, and I thought I will die in this desert.

But You sent manna from heaven. You brought water from stone. You came as a pillar of cloud, as a column of flame. And all the things I wanted turned insubstantial as mirages, in the fierce and marvelous light of what was best.

And so I thank You, Daddy. For ways that are higher than mine. For giving me bread when I ask for a scorpion. For giving me life when I deserve death. For never letting me go.