river of grace
I believe Grace speaks in exactly the language we need.
Earlier tonight, awash in one of the countless startling waves of grief (I think I'm "okay," then I'm not; so it goes, yes?), I posted this on Instagram:
“Sometimes I still feel as if I’m moving underwater. Blurred. Gasping for air. But Grace whispers however, wherever we are. And every drop saves me.”
Caught in that storm of missing (all we will never have; all she will never experience . . .), I could hardly see those drops of grace. But I trust they exist. When I look (and keep looking), when I empty the static of frantic thought, when I breathe deeply and believe . . . I find them. They find me.
Drops of grace.
And a few moments ago? Working on Sprout: Gather (11/15/14), I clicked through some old files for research . . . and happened across (oh, serendipity, there is no happening) exactly what my thirsty soul needed. The river of grace. (See the image above, one of my handwritten notes shared in Sprout: Revive, a soul-nourishing issue from earlier this year.)
Come drink, thirsty one.
// Grief stories. Because honesty unites us. Because we all mourn. Because vulnerability is strength. Beloved, I am cracking open and letting you in. I honor my story . . . and yours. //
May you drink
from a river of grace
today {all days}:
a constant flow
ever available
when we need her most.
with love,
Amanda
