The answers to my prayers are sources of gratitude. Would I prefer a reprobate existence lacking relationship, wherein God doesn’t hear, respond to or grant me the ability to kiss His Son at all? Absolutely not.

Even if unexpected, encroached upon and enshrouded by the enemy, their very occurrence is the allowance of God. Sometimes that resembles injustice in the short-term and is hard to swallow. I let it be. Selah.

Still, I did not offer them up with the rhythmic intention of my songs or with the slur of a spirit drunk with racism and other forms of hatred for The Most High’s facets.

They are the product of closeted moments when I, reduced from four standing decades of Life experience to my knees as His baby, received a message I might not completely understand much less agree with at first.

Every tear-stained, hungry, stubborn, kicking, soiled, unintelligible moment of confusion mistaken for heartbreak was offered the remedy for being lied on and to registered as “Dear child, just lay it down.” Huh? Ok… . My undereye area is unusually arid after years of overflow; a tenderized salt flat often colder at night, naturally thinner than other areas and threatening a familiar darkness I combat from within.

Don’t you know joy and pain require release? Both’ll burst your heart if you withhold them. One day, I remembered that He trained my hands for spiritual war—and to love plants. Thankfully, t(He)re is a Balm.


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