paperday:

She is not a night creature. She sleeps in the nighttime. She folds it in deep breathing— an old gum wrapper lost in the corners of her clothes.
But tonight trouble has seized her. She is cold beneath the blankets, because tonight she can see into the pit of her heart, where the darkest things bloom like ink blooms in water.
Her head echoes with oceans and she wonders if she is still allowed to sing it. 
Her head rumbles with mountains and she nearly runs from the cloud.

Obstinate, disobedient child.
Push me Lord, because I’ve never had to work a day in my life.
Do not fail me.
Do not let me fail.

Tonight she is a night creature, and she pulls open the blinds to watch the cars move in a thin line across the bridge. Hours and hours.
She is awake, with no dreams to fill the time. She is not really a night creature, but old wrongs say she is. They begin to slink through closet doors and out from under the bed.

You’re alone, but we’ll keep you warm. 
Come in. I see there’s no other way. I’ll never sleep tonight; I’m troubled, I’m troubled, and I’m not sure if there are any oceans for me.

She wanders under hot water but the heat sits hellishly on her skin.
No dreaming, no dreaming.
She wills herself to dream and is met with a great chasm and the fingers of dark things.
Go the other way. 
The old Book, so old that it was written in black and white. Look, she reads. By now the cloud covers the night sky. It hovers over the earth as it did in genesis. 
She can see it.

I see it. 
Listen here.
I’m listening.
You are not a night creature. You are a new creature.
Why am I Awake?
I woke you to be a gardener. 
I haven’t started yet.
I gave you everything you need. 
I don’t know how.
You haven’t even tried.
But who will help me?
You don’t need help.
I can’t do this by myself.
Get going.
I can’t do it.
Begin.

There is nothing more to read. The dark things have dissolved under the weight of the old Book. Sometimes, she thinks, it is lonelier to be a new creature than it is to be a night creature. 
She kicks off the blankets and the hellish heat departs. She closes the blinds. Brow furrowed, she thinks of gardening. She’ll have to work hard. This means calluses and sore muscles. This means long hours in isolation. This means—
Begin. 

sitsoakstore:

Warrior.

You know that word? The one I prayed for and did not want?

That word was Warrior.

At first, I did not want it because it was too fierce, too much, too…violent.

But then I came to understand that it rode in conjunction with prayer: Prayer Warrior.

This I could understand and grow to like, however, I argued: could it not be encourager? Advocate? 

No. Each time I asked: No, it is Warrior.

And once I claimed it, named it, the flood gates have opened.

It was as if God was waiting for me to say yes, to affirm what He has called me too and once I did, He wasted no time in saying: Let me show you.

I do not look for prayer, it comes to me, is asked of me, by countless people—-sometimes out-rightly, sometimes by just sharing.

And most of the time, it is not easy prayer. It is not praise.

It is hard and broken and desperate.

It is prayer for the family of the father who died.

Prayer for the family of the Brother who died or the sister who has cancer or the girl whose engagement was broken off, or the friend with a broken neck

or the work load that is too heavy or for the job that is no where to be found

or for the dad with possible cancer and the fiance who passed away and the family in the midst of drugs.

And now I understand why Warrior is the word —- and not encourager, not advocate.

And I hear her echo and know she is right when she said: “Maybe a stronger word was needed.”

A stronger word that only comes with the presence of the Lord.