This is a follow-up letter from our our women’s retreat in October, but really it is for everyone who knows…

We cannot breathe without Christ.

Dear Beloved,

It was a lovely weekend, wasn’t it? I planned it all, you know, perfectly, sovereignly, for you.  I wanted it to be special, all the details, carefully and lovingly sorted through.  My thoughts are always precious towards you, you know?  I love you so much the sand grains on the mighty shores of My ocean’s boundary lines do not outnumber how much I think about you.

Every. Single. Day.

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You are always on my mind.  I loved you before you knew Me.  I thought about you before your mama carefully formed each letter of your name, swirled in ink, a signature handwriting belonging only to her, across that page. Angelic beings stooped in awe as she ran the tips of soft-skinned fingers over the outline of letters, in love and anticipation of the day I would let air touch your wet skin, and they asked, “Another one, God?”  “Yes,” I answered, “another one added to us,

fashioned solely for her First Love,

sent forth on mission, equipped to serve,

isn’t she beautiful?”

Your first cry was a cry of rebellion…a tiny fist raised against Providence,

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and I loved you.

I secured and ordained each day of your life and wrote it down in Heaven’s book.  Most of your days were walked out in self-rising, desires that fed your flesh, wants that robbed our intimate and familiar conversations, distractions that made you forget My scent.

My hands are sheathed in wet clay and I delight in the spinning of your life.  I have fired you in the furnace of affliction, and whispered, “Return to Me with all your heart…surrender to My design.”

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And so I set aside days and times and a season on a sprint into color, brisk with the entrance of Autumn, warm with leftover summer sun, seasoned in fever heat, to remind you that…

I wrote your story…, don’t shut the book, don’t let it collect dust.

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When dust settles, we forget.  But it’s almost as if forgetting is safe. But safety in forgetting means ignoring traces of my Father hands sculpting a masterpiece.  My invisible fingerprints riddle your life, can you see them?  Love your story because I wrote it, not because you are

the star, 

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or the victim, 

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but because it was woven together in holy threads of color, sewn in glory,

by ME.

I often plan special events for my beloved children to remind them of My great love poured out in living blood, leaking through open tears of ripped flesh, running down a trail of holy washing.. A lifeblood that never dries up.  A vine that never withers.  A lion whose roar never wanes.

He roared

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And you ran home, and fell in His arms, unashamed, and He led you in a holy dance, that felt effortless…you inhaled Him and let Him sweep and dip and twirl you until you lay in His arms,

sweetly satisfied.

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He was as close as your breath and your heart joined in unison to His steady, rhythmic beats of Divine pulse.  There was no place on earth you would rather be,

you couldn’t look away. 

The irresistible fire in His eyes locked you in with an intense, arousing love. This was your time…you felt His holy kiss and He fastened Himself to you.

The music is still playing

Can you hear it?

Turn down the noise of the day and turn up His song,

The one He plays for you just before dawn… 

He has been singing over you as you rest in perfect trust….

Wake up and run with Him! Feast on words and the sweet juice of pomegranates, drink deeply and imbibe until you are intoxicated with His love.

This is how you pour out into those who are clawing at every last bit of tethered hanging strength you have.  This is how you:

Keep loving

Keep serving

Keep giving

This is how you breathe.

This is how you respond in love to a harsh comment

Or a whiny child

Or a rebellious teenager

Or a needy neighbor

Or an angry brother or sister

Or the betraying friend

Or the pastor who doesn’t respond

Or the church who hurt you

Or the mother or father who forsake you and sided with another

Or the selfish husband

Or the unbelieving spouse

Or the cruel teacher who hurt your child

Or the mentally ill

Or the poor who can’t find work

Or the hungry

Or those we judge because they are different

Or smell

Or smoke

Or who keep making the same wrong choices over and over

Or the thief

Or the cheat

Or the adulterer

Or the same-sex attracted

Or the prisoner

Or the addict

Or the drunk who ruins every family event

Or the brain injured

Or the child on that wild spectrum.

Fill up and drink from Jesus every day and pour out grace-laden buckets upon buckets on those who can’t see, or hear, or understand, or taste,

yet. 

The secret of the Lord is for those who fear Him, and He will make them know His covenant.” (Psalm 25:14) 

“It will come about in that day, declares the Lord, that you will call Me Ishi (Husband)… (Hosea 2:16). 

“Just as the Father has loved Me, I have also loved you; abide in My love” (John 15:9). 

“When I found Him whom my soul loves; I held on to him and would not let Him go…” (song of Solomon 3:4). 

Consumed in holy fire and intense Divine love,

Trish

 

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