Written on May 2, 2017.
A decade plus three years ago, upon a table, body numb, inside out. A baby’s faint cry, heads lightly touching before my person, her daddy carried babe to the NICU.
Machines whirring, tugs and twitches on empty, the tense voice of a doctor. The what ifs and worst cases playing out. Even in the feeling void, I resisted the pulls and plucks to save, so they stayed me with slumber. Drifting and dense, statements fell, “This was too hard. More would not be best. We need your consent.”
Parched lips with the word they needed pouring out like ink upon paper. And it was done. Tied and tamed. No more.
Four months ago, whispered wonder. “Would you be willing, to host a bit of heaven?” How easy to grant access to the impossible. Until you recognize it will cost all the faithfulness you have always wanted to give. And you must reckon with how much harder it all turns as you await the miracle that He will make of your yes.
For the invitation was to more than pregnancy. It was to the unknown. To the mystery of manna. “What is it?” Manna means. Different taste upon varied lips. It tastes as what you believe. It satisfies as you carry. Contentment cradled, day by day.
Mystery. The not knowing. The reality of how much you don’t want Him to have to show you something so you will believe. So you dance with Light on the dark valley floor, as you just make out the outline of the mount you will sing at the top of your lungs from. One day.
The question. The query. “Are you positive?” Positive. I dug to define. “Tub”. A container. Filled with the best, gladness, prosperity and bounty. The question truly, “Will you know He’s good no matter how this turns out? Will this have been His best if it diverges from what you thought? Will you let him prosper you through the unseen and unknown of it? Will let joy be the song you sing?”
Yes, we’re positive.
Days upon days later, an appointment with wand and screen. And a wonderful woman who has seen much and keeps her eyes open. To mystery.
I shower, prepare. Weeks have waited with us. My person returns from de-hungering our herd. And he says, “Did you cry the whole time you were in the shower or just half of it?” He knows. He always knows. “The whole time.” He smiles. “What did your tears find?” he asks as he takes the towel from my hair. “Deyanus,” I reply. So many enoughs. “Your favorite?” again with a smile. “If you had only asked,” tears streaming once more.
Now upon table, heart bare. Pressing, threshing upon feeling flesh. And then, tiny and tender, a shot from our story. One, still and stopped to show fluttering heart. Another, like firefly too quick to catch. Our own hearts, skipped beats, pounding. At the manifestation of mystery. Glory. It is what mystery grows into when we behold instead of holding on. It is what allows us to melt into the mystery, miracle and majesty. To become portion of such a glorious prize.
It’s what it feels like when the sight of sunset enters your soul. Healing as it pierces. Grief and joy mixture as you reconcile that you will not get that glimpse again, yet the next time the sun settles in Heaven’s hand the gaze will be full, because it will be bigger, grander, greater. And you know, you will never stop pursuing what glory looks like. Because the revelation of met mystery is what sustains. It is the substance of that which is believed. And the most beautiful parts and paragraphs come from the lines and letters we couldn’t see but that were etched upon memory forever and the simple sound of His saying.
Let Pappa remind you of a time when He spoke a word and the mystery of it, the manna of it sustained you all the way to fulfillment.
Watch the sunset together and have each person describe the glory of it.
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