I Thought

08 May 2013 Leave a Comment

by nataliaria in God, Sovereign, Trust

I thought I’d post a picture for you.

But nothing looks just right for tonight.

I thought I’d be less worried.

But finals are next week and worry grows heavy and dark.

I thought I’d be exhausted.

But God gives strength, rest, grace, and I’m plugging right along.

I thought I’d miss my friends, my school family, over the summer.

Now I know I will.

I thought. I know. I’m worried. I’m hopeful. I’m sad. I’m anxious.

I thought, passing the black night water of the river, rolling fast past Lincoln Park Zoo, that I’d rather just control it all.

But control is synonymous with worry, and God is so sovereign, I can only trust Him.

So I know. I believe. I trust.

And I’m getting through just fine; I’m doing so very well.

~Natalia

Dear You

10 Apr 2013 2 Comments

by nataliaria in Faithful, Feel, God, Sleep, Sovereign, Tired, Trust

Dear you,

You said it last week, sitting there on the couch, and I didn’t say anything then, but your words were so familiar, I haven’t escaped them since. You were discouraged, tired, and your words echoed strong of my own life, just a year ago. I thought about your words this week, about what you had said and what you were feeling, what you were fighting, and then tonight, you said stressed and anxious, and again, I didn’t say anything just then. But I’m saying something now.

I know what it feels like to be sensitive, and to think all the while that it’s dumb to even use the word to describe yourself. Sensitive is for little children with hurt feelings, not college students. But when you hear words that no one meant to be hurtful, but you soak them up and let them rock you hard to the core, it feels sensitive. When you can’t find a seat in chapel, because that’s just the way things work out, and you don’t get the joke at the lunch table, and it suddenly feels like it’s about you, and when no one meant to leave you out, but you weren’t explicitly included either? Sensitive.

I know what it’s like to be tired, so very tired. When every night is a chance to get more sleep, but the homework and the assignments, and the “Things To Do” just don’t end, and you’re just so tired. And it doesn’t seem to get any better because the weekends, those resting days, have events and schedules, too, and when will you ever get a break?

I know the feeling of so, so behind. I know what it feels like to work with everything you have, but every time you feel like maybe you’ve gotten it; maybe this time you’ve finally made it to the green side of the grass, the relief side of life’s whirlwind, that’s the moment that you remember. Remember an assignment due. A meeting made. A future that you can’t do anything about except stress, so you stress. You worry. And things just keep piling up and you’re too exhausted to get back up and keep running to try to keep up with everything.

I know what that’s like. I lived a very similar story my freshman year, and when you said those things, I wanted to scoop up you and every other freshman, every other overwhelmed and anxious and exhausted student, and tell them that I know what that’s like.

And it’s true: I have ridden an emotional roller coaster much like the one you’d like to get off of right now, and so have many of the students here with us. We’re alike in that way. But that’s not the reason I’m writing to you: I have more to say.

God knows what you’re fighting, friend. Knows what you’re thinking, mourning, celebrating, stressing about. He is real and He knows and He cares. I don’t want to preach at you, because no one needs that, really, and it’s not my place, anyway. But I do want you to know, want to remind you, that God is so, so involved in your life, and in your heart.

It doesn’t feel like that all the time. When your eyes are grainy from lack of sleep, and you’re slogging through another assignment, and you can’t shake the feeling that everyone is out to get you, the presence of God is not exactly oozing out your pricked heart. Oh, but He’s there. He’s there and He cares what you feel, what you think, what you say.

He cares, and He’s said some things about it, too. He’s said that He loves you- really, really loves you. And that He provides for you. And will never forget you. And never break a promise with you. And will never fail to provide you with what you need. He is gentle with hearts that are just too worn out, and He is strong for those who really don’t think they can make it through these days, these weeks. He is power and compassion and kindness and provision, and He is woven into every aspect of your heart, every thing you do: He’s the Creator of the world, and of you and you are so important to Him.

And tomorrow morning, girly, you’ll get up and it’ll probably be raining again and more than likely, that lead-heavy stress will slip down slowly just like today, but before you let discouragement, exhaustion, stress have the final say, remember: Someone much bigger than stress or fear or exhaustion is in control, and He’s got an eye on you, girly.

~Natalia

Just Telling

29 Jan 2013 Leave a Comment

by nataliaria in Death, God, Heaven, Moody Bible Institute, Sovereign, Worship

I suppose part of the reason that I gave you pictures last night instead of words is because I’m sorely tempted to wrap the intensely varied spread of emotions and experiences that have been crammed into this campus over the past four days into a seven paragraph sermonette on a neatly defined aspect of God’s character and plan for our lives.

I’m obsessed with wrapping the unwieldy and just generally real life experiences that I live and witness into clean, tidy lessons with a moral and a fairy tale ending. It’s good, and I’ve gotten good at it, but it’s a vast majority of life that cannot be packaged clean and tied with a bow, and I’m too tired to try to pretend that I can do that tonight.

Because Nelle came into the room last night, in the brief moments between when I had brushed my teeth, and before I clicked off my lamp and climbed into bed. The Roommate in her tall bed behind me, I had taken a deep drink of water from my cherished cup when I noticed a head in the cracked door, staring expectantly at me. Had my mouth not been full of water, I would have screamed. As it was, my heart jumped and the would-be scream came out wet and warbly and the water I had been drinking ended up mostly on The Roommate’s arms. Ever apologetic, Nelle made amends profusely, as I alternately laughed, listened to my heart pounding, and spot dried The Roommate with my hand towel.

And then Tuesday morning, President’s Chapel is a memorial service for our fellow student, now three days worshipping the King face to face in Heaven. Songs and Scripture and memories and praising the sovereign God who knew exactly how many days Micah would have here with us. I didn’t know him, but my mother’s prayed years for a tender heart that mourns with those who mourn, and service ended, we walk in silence to our next classes, I’m so thankful for friends who carry tissues.

It’s such a real life we live, and joy is real and suffering is real and I’m not looking for answers and deep connections tonight.

I’m just… telling.

~Natalia

Conductor

23 Jan 2013 1 Comment

by nataliaria in Music, Prayer, Sovereign, Worship

I waited all day to come here, waited all day to write and tell you all about… well, life, I suppose. But it’s 11pm now and The Roommate’s asleep on the other side of the room, and it all seems too very much to write.

I almost started with “I wish”, but I’ll not fall to that, because I wish is the antonym of content, and sometimes it feels like a very tender balance inside of this heart. I suppose it’s human nature to wish for. But contentment with the enough, the more than enough, that God has poured boundlessly over my life is not the only balance I’m trying to find.

There’s another balance between excitement and a deep, creeping fear. Being a teacher someday, a someday that will become today in an all-too-short blink of the eye, is an exciting concept when I’ve done my homework and the reading report is ready to turn in and I’m working right along on the paper. But I sat in the second row in class today, and I’m looking at the backs of heads that must know so much more than me. And we’re talking about education standards and curriculum and I’m so inadequate and overwhelmed pours oil on the fire of fear that’s building in my heart.

The president of our school preaches Chapel twice a month, and today was one of those treasured Tuesdays. And I was so very happy, relieved maybe a little, too, when there were mikes and guitars on stage, because my soul craves God time in worship with song, and after we’ve sung, this school president is a wise, wise speaker. He’s teaching on Esther and emphasizes decisions, and my notebook’s open on my lap, I wrote “God Orchestrates” in the front page, even as Dr. Nyquist spoke about a sovereign God whose ability to know and care and design far exceeds my own estimations of Him.

I’m sitting in bed now, feet perpetually cold tucked under my comforter, and writing brings back snapshots of a day still winding down. But without realizing it my eyebrows are sinking deeper and deeper, a frown taking shape in the light of my computer screen because I just can’t make sense of it all. There’s no way, really, just not a chance, that God could use every decision, every experience of this day that feels so fragmented, to work in my heart and bring truth to a plan that He set in motion when time began.

I know in my head that He’s wise and sovereign, and that His rule extends far beyond my ability to comprehend anything about Him, but my heart hesitates because I really just don’t see how. I have a little mind, and a little faith to go with it, and if I can’t conceive of how He could bring good from the small bits of chaos that chain together to form my life, then how could He?

But The Roommate prays first and God Orchestrates is on the wall now, cardboard reminder of truth I’m not sure I always believe. And The Roommate prays Conductor, because He gives cues when we need, not a second before, and He’s looking at the whole picture, the whole piece, and He knows where this melody is headed, and He’s doing exactly what’s needed to bring us exactly where He wants us, to turn this confusion into a concert.

And she doesn’t know, but feet away, tucked into her own bed, soft blue eyes closed, she’s praying peace and hope into a life, a day, a heart phase, that’s not terrible, but none too wonderful, either. I’m balancing on one leg between hope full of peace and chaos swirling confused, and with words she’s praying right back to Him, The Roommate pulls layers of doubt back from a life that He’s deemed for Him, and it’s pouring this is right, this is good, back into my life.

Because there’s a balance in life, that I’ll probably be seeking the rest of my life. But God doesn’t wobble over fear and trust, doesn’t raise eyebrows and question why that was necessary. He doesn’t doubt, doesn’t wander, doesn’t hem and haw and eventually just stop for a moment, because it all just feels a little off. He doesn’t do any of that.

Because He’s the Great Conductor and He knows it all and orchestrates it all, and His hands mold my life like they’ve molded history since time first blinked, and His plan is so incredibly rich.

~Natalia

Calling Me To

21 Jan 2013 Leave a Comment

by nataliaria in God, Sovereign

I was writing a post,

right in the middle of the words

that maybe I’d share with you tonight.

But girls on the floor,

we went out to dessert,

I thought maybe I’d stick around here.

But five fit in a taxi

and who am I to plan?

I feel it when God’s sovereignty

crashes gentle

over a heart that thinks

it knows best.

I feel it because

no matter what I’ve planned,

the God who holds plans

is the God who holds hearts

and in the dark of the room,

makeup itching my eyes,

there’s suddenly a song

in my heart, on my lips.

Monday night, tonight,

I’m about to sleep,

but words that worship Him,

play unbidden through my mind;

as if He’s calling me to praise Him

tonight.

~ Natalia

Real Battle

29 Dec 2012 Leave a Comment

by nataliaria in God, Movies, Sovereign, Writing

I wrote a paper on a movie last semester. I told you about it, remember? I watched The Adjustment Bureau and wrote about sovereignty and free will and the echoes of God that are woven throughout the film. I like the movie, and I liked the paper, and I have a sneaking suspicion that I could have written more, much more, on that same topic.

And today Larissa’s birthday party, we’ve all ended up at the same restaurant afterwards. And I’m sitting sideways in the corner, my feet balanced on the bottom of my father’s chair. Conversation has skipped stepping-stones from professor to Paris to films and have you seen Midnight in Paris? And my ears are perked instantly because that’s another movie that I like quite a bit, and just about anything including the word “Paris” snatches my attention and holds it.

There’s discussion about the movie, and some have seen it and others haven’t, and I told my dad I could write a blog post about the film, but then I stopped; If I could find some deeper meaning in it. And someone said they bet I could, and maybe I could, maybe I will, someday.

But I saw The Hobbit again tonight and maybe I was more awake, and maybe I had my eyes open to it, but the depth of the story; of lines, of looks, of actions, sunk in a little more. And Orcs aren’t real, and Gollum doesn’t exist, but the darkness that’s creeping into Middle Earth in The Hobbit, the darkness that nearly overtakes everything as the story of the Ring continues to unfold, isn’t fake.

God is real. Real and sovereign and the most powerful One. He is more good than I can ever wrap my mind around, and He is light. That’s true. But Satan is just as real. Deceitful and smart and fighting against all that is good, all that is light, with all his being. He’s working to bring darkness.

And sometimes, Satan seems to be winning. There were 500 homicides in Chicago this year, and someone was getting beat up on the corner as we drove past on our way to PCM. And God is the Creator of the world and everything in it, and He’s the King of my heart, but sin streaks black through even the redeemed and sometimes I’m just as dark as outside, too.

But He who is in me is greater than he who is in the world, and I know Light wins over darkness in the very end. It’s a funny sort of limbo I’m in, we’re all in, now. Because we’re saved, redeemed, now, and I know exactly where I’m going when I die. But I’m still alive now, and I’m still watching the light collide with dark all around me, and I’m supposed to be involved in this fight, too.

And Gandalf says courage and strength, and it’s the little things that matter. And he’s a wizard, so he must not be wrong, but there’s a big thing under all these little things, too. A big God under it all. And each kindness, each prayer, each stumble step of faith, is founded in the drowning undercurrent of a God who is Light.

Because good is real and evil is real, and this life we’re living really is an adventure, but I know who wins, and I know what He would have me do.

~Natalia

Christmas Snapshot

25 Dec 2012 Leave a Comment

by nataliaria in Casa Hogar, Chicago, Christmas, Family, Food, Friends, God, Happiness, Love, Mexico, Sovereign

It’s been four years since we were in this city, this state, this home, for Christmas, but if Christmas is His incarnation, redemption born in a stable, then it’s not just a day we’re commemorating; it’s a way of life. A way of life that breathes grace and mercy, wears redeemed like a cloak, and leaves God’s love deep in everything we touch, do, say.

December 25th is one day, one very special day, but it’s not so much different from any other day, because this day and those days God is truth, God is love, and God is just, and Jesus is the perfect redeemer we’re drowning without. The special of today is not that He’s more Him today than any other; the special of this day is that today we’re thinking about it.

Today just as any other this is a building of six separated, but the lines swirl unreadable between neighbors and friends, between friends and family, and there are four breakfast casseroles here. Our ceiling is their floor, all day, every day, but today, we’re all sitting around one table, please pass the mango juice, and can you even imagine the weaving of life strings in this room?

Because I’ve got a story and upstairs has a story, across the hall, too. My story is me and yours is you, but there’s one God who holds all stories in the palm of His grand Story. And I know He’s wise, I know He’s sovereign, because He’s winding each story together and I’ll never quite understand. I’ll never quite understand how story meeting story means there’s wise words to soothe nervous hearts, little hands ready to play together, and six units of family wound together tight just when we need it.

December 25th is a snapshot of a year; close your eyes, I bet you can tell me where you were last 12/25, and the one before and before, well into years behind. True for you and true for me and turn around, last year today the mexican sun was hot and white bright through the VIPS window. And it’s funny because it really all started in this mexican diner chain; Mexico City in 2008, I’d been in Mexico four hours and really didn’t know what I had ordered.

Last year little family squinting in the sun in a downtown Mexico diner, at least we all know what we ordered. This year there’s snow finally, finally, dusting the Chicago streets outside, and I’m peeling dinner potatoes when Mom says call Mexico.

I always hesitate, and I’m really not sure why, but I call the Casa Hogar and Christmas has traditions, they’re all watching movies. But the voice on the other end rings happy, hits deep in my heart. Wise woman, woman whose love binds tight and holds strong. And we’re trading words over this Skype call; asking questions, murmuring assent and understanding, soaking up details because it’s been a long time and it’ll be longer until we’re face to face.

And then Rubi’s on the line and I suddenly realize that different countries, schools, families, skin tones really don’t matter because three years running friendship, Rubi was in my class at school in Mexico. And there’s a grip, a trust settling in my heart, because I trust Him to do well, and I trust Him to do right, and these are not friendships I have to fight to keep a grasp on, these are gifts He’s given because He is gracious.

And later, later, the day’s winding down but my phone is buzzing and cousins are friends, too, and the cousin-sister sends me back to Skype, once more. And it’s funny because I can hear them maybe a little, but they can’t hear me. But a picture is worth a thousand words and a video chat is worth more; words or no words. The other side of the country is 4×6 inches on my computer screen and I’m waving and blowing kisses to family I adore.

And Christmas is a day just like any other, and God is God every hour always, but pause, celebrate: Christmas is so very special, too.

~Natalia

Supposed to Be

17 Nov 2012 1 Comment

by nataliaria in Chicago, Christmas, Friends, God, Kiddos, Mexico, Miss, Sovereign, Spanish

Wednesday morning, maybe even Tuesday night, homework rules my mind. Empty time loaded with assignments, trudging through to-do lists both academic and otherwise. Sitting in class, eating, on the train, I can’t truly focus because a brain that’s spent every waking hour planning my next move, next assignment, doesn’t just stop on command.

Chapel, class, meals, and sitting. I shouldn’t be sitting anyway, no doubt. Reeling, reeling: what’s next? What are my goals for this morning, tonight, before Sunday?

Work and outside commitments, time for conversation with friends, too- Heaven forbid I’m a total hermit. Mind’s going, going, and I’m balancing the tightrope between just about making it, and crashing through deadlines, last-minute scrambling to get it together.

But Kat’s downtown for the morning and I’m gloriously free. Mind says no; I’ll not think about to-do, about due by Monday, due by Monday, due by Tuesday. Turn that off and enjoy time with a friend God placed in my life before I can remember and who He’s determined to keep in my life. I don’t always recognize a great gift when He’s dropped it into my story, and I don’t see immediately how truly wonderful Kat time is, until hours in.

Lunch on the other side, the lake side, of Michigan Avenue, and maybe Kat’ll head back to the suburbs; back to the school she calls home. But they’re setting up for the Christmas Light parade and more and more people are filling the slick city sidewalk and no, what if you stayed just a bit longer?

So back to the room and sitting on my bed, squares of light warm and clean on the floor, on the wall. She reads, I write, and God whispers normal and breathes peace over the pair. There’s a bond of time and trust between us and it’s easy and comfortable to sit and do homework together. Country music (she taught me to like it) hums out of my computer and we work, swapping occasional stories as the sun moves ever so slightly and the clock slides towards 4pm.

Project complete, assignment over, there’s a study break in there, too, and we’re close together on the bed, pulling the computer back and forth from my lap to hers, clicking through YouTube, Facebook, and more.

Study break, parade, and we grab coats and ding, elevator downstairs. We’re blocks from Michigan Avenue, and an hour early, but people are thronging to that Magnificent street. Hearts pumping happily, we step briskly through crowds and past sweet cheek babies bundled in strollers.

Sun sets and parade’ll start in a bit or two, and we’ve found a spot along the street where we can see the street… more or less. Two women with dark hair, three little angels with them, stand directly in front of us. The smallest child, slick black hair pulled into a messy ponytail, has my attention before she even makes a noise. But her mother hoists her up and the little one’s at eye level with me now and shy black eyes look me over before turning away.

People are packed in all around us; three rows deep in front and five rows deep behind. Conversations flow and build on every side, and a parade marshal standing in the street is leading the wave among the crowd. I can hear so much, see so much, but the baby child next to me is exclaiming in Spanish and her words hit the Mexico ache in my heart like few things do. Parade marches on, and Kat and I, we exclaim and yell, taking pictures of Mickey and Minnie Mouse and cheering exultantly when the lights on the trees all around us click on in an instant.

Parade, Christmas, lights. Kat, pictures, music. We’re pressed tight together, everyone in this crowd, and it only gets worse when we pull away and begin to move south, to the river, to the fireworks. But there’s a thrilling kind of excitement in so many people together, moving and living and celebrating.

And there’s fireworks, too, and we sit on a ledge by the river, thousands upon thousands of people all around, and watch colored fire explode amongst skyscraper after skyscraper. There’s so much there to celebrate, to enjoy. And I do.

And all the time, the sweet child’s voice rings in my ears, and the tug of Mexico pulls on my heart hard. Missing is sweet and terrible and red and green explosions of beauty over the river and suddenly, I think of a story that Hermana Tere told me about forgetting to pick her cousin’s daughter up from a doctor’s appointment. And life can’t be easy for a moment, can it?

Because homework comes relentless and it’s such a wonderful night and my heart breaks with emotion I can’t, or won’t, give name to, because it’s a multi-ethnic city and Spanish rings soft in every place I look. There’s a conversation of nothing but Princess Bride quotes in my text messages, and hot chocolate party in the lounge, and everything in me fights the homework I must return to now.

Every piece of my life demands more of my attention than I can give it and I feel like a puzzle divvied up, yet underneath it all, there’s a foundation- there has to be a foundation. Because God gives only what He can help me handle and He is sovereign and His will is perfect and my heart’s long since rubbed raw because a part of it is left in Mexico. But maybe that’s supposed to be.

Maybe all of this is supposed to be.

~Natalia

This, His Will

16 Nov 2012 Leave a Comment

by nataliaria in Casa Hogar, God, Grow, Kiddos, Longing, Mexico, Purpose, Sovereign, Teach

The following is the second part of my application to Moody’s Elementary Education program. The first part is entitled Why I’ll Teach.

The story of Casa Hogar, and the profound impact this orphanage has had on virtually every aspect of my life can hardly be overstated. I believe that God will continue to weave the Casa Hogar part of my tapestry, my story, for many years to come. Living with my family in central Mexico during my senior year of high school, we met and promptly fell in love with the children and directors of the Casa Hogar. Anywhere between 30 and 50 children who, for reasons as varied as the child, cannot live with their families. Abuse, neglect, abandon: these young hearts will forever bear the scars of the evil in this world. An evil they did not instigate and yet have no defenses against.

While no longer living in Mexico, my family maintained contact with the Casa Hogar, and with Manuel and Tere, the middle-aged couple entrusted with the care of these children. We visit when we can, a couple of weeks once a year devoted to sharing life with these precious individuals in Mexico. My first trip completely solo, July 2012 slipped by with the blink of an eye as I lived in Manuel and Tere’s home, spending almost every waking hour at the orphanage.

Even then, scant weeks ago, I clung to my children’s ministry title. I knew I loved working with children. I knew I would work with them. The pull of teaching, of education, tightened around me, but I fought; my heart swells and breaks alongside every broken hearted child whose hurt leaks into my own story, but surely I can’t teach, right?

My plane hasn’t been in Mexico for two hours when Tere pulls up the subject of English classes. You know English, she says with a smile as children’s voices ring out across the orphanage’s gravel courtyard. Will you teach English classes for these three weeks that you are here? I glance out the window, watching precious young ones zip past on their hand-me-down bikes, and then turn back to her.

Yes, I will teach them English classes.

Roughly mimicking techniques I’ve seen before, wracking my brain to remember how my own mother taught these children when she tutored them, I stumble my way through our English classes. The littlest students nail down their colors and basic greetings, while the older children, jr. high students by their own right, work through verb tenses and lists of verbs that we work together to create. We all make it through the three weeks, and I’m happy with the results of our time together, but something is gnawing inside me.

A lurking wondering, a gentle longing. I know what it is, but I’m scared to approach the question head on. Yet the thought will not go away, and finally, back in the United States, I am forced to deal with my unease head on: I’m a children’s ministry major, but my brief stint in the classroom in Mexico have stirred something in me.

I want to know how to teach. I want to learn how best to deal with a rowdy classroom. I want to understand how a young mind learns, what is the best way to explain a topic, how to structure a lesson plan.

Once I start thinking about it, I find I can’t stop. The tapestry grows and develops, and God gently and firmly continues to reveal to me my own heart. My own desire to teach. Clinging to His assurance that what I’m doing is right, that His faithfulness continues to the end of time, I take first one step towards elementary education, then another, my heart filling with His joy and His peace with every confirmation of this, His will.

~Natalia

Holding My Heart

27 Oct 2012 Leave a Comment

by nataliaria in God, Heal, Hurt, Relationships, Sovereign, Still, Trust

The world is not ending,

my heart keeps on beating,

But in that moment, I’d rather not be feeling what I am.

I’d prefer to feel normal, feel comfortable, feel better.

I’d prefer not to be on the defensive,

sifting through every emotion, every interaction,

weeding out the painful, the hurtful, the hard.

I’d much prefer that.

But weeks pass and things get better.

The sharp wears to dull,

denial rolls into anger, and slowly,

both of them wash away to the soft sadness underneath.

Weeks pass and I’m learning and growing and

things really are getting better.

Right?

But words and a look and hours later,

and I’m frustrated that normal seems so very unattainable.

My way, the way I want things to be, must be the right way,

and I can’t get over that my way might never be.

I’ve set high standards for normalcy,

and the realization that we may never reach those standards

leaves me saddened, and frustrated, too.

I know how to fix this, I think.

When circumstances and wills, minds and hearts, all line up to my way,

things will fall right into place.

But wise words are spoken softly,

wisdom I need to hear.

Wisdom says let it go.

Wisdom says under the hurt and the unsure and the maybe-this-is-awkward,

under all this, through all this, somewhere,

there is reality.

Wisdom says find reality, hold to reality,

and let it go.

And I do.

A little.

I drop impositions,

drop expectations I wish others would take on for themselves,

and I find reality in Christ,

in my own heart,

and to this I cling.

But I’m planning, too.

There are words I’ve never said,

emotions I’ve not let myself own until recently,

and now; now I want to speak.

So I plan and wait and keep my eyes open for just when I’ll say.

Chances and opportunities and not right now and just missed it.

Nervous, nervous. Nervous and determined.

I know the words and I’m determined to fix this well.

But chapel hour and an illuminated phone,

contact and a conversation and God says,

I’m in this more than you think.

Nervous all over again,

but peace grabs me by the shoulders and shakes me still.

Hours later, words spoken; hearts months hurt sit across from each other

and I catch a glimpse of healed, and I feel healing in me.

And it’s over and over, and God’s so real to me,

I can feel Him breathing on my face.

Why do you doubt, child?

Why is what’s now not enough for you; why am I not enough?

Be still and know means be still and know;

I am who I say, and I keep my promises

and I’m the One holding your heart.

And when healing is meant to come,

it will come.

~Natalia

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