I've wondered how to pick up the pieces of last week and fold them in to some type of beautiful mosaic for you. Something tangible to see the stories in their imperfection and vulnerability.
Instead, I hear a refrain in my soul reminding me of Truth -
The stories we shared were messy. They were bent and broken and doubled over and bleeding.
They questioned and tore down facades and pointed out lies spoken to them in the darkness.
And yet, Hope sings. For you - for her - for him - for me. We close our eyes and listen close and hear the melody in the distance, the rush of wind as it passes through palm leaves and the crash against the dirt of donkey's hooves -
And He is coming, the One who knows our hurts and fears and the way our voices quiver when we speak. It's Him who gives us strength. It's His breath that fills our lungs.
It's His hope that makes us stay.
We could leave, you know. We could leave and never turn back because these wounds go deep. But Hope sings deeper and we stay because we see the power and potential of all of our voices rising together.
So later this week, when the songs of Hosannah turn to the ding of metal against metal and the heavy breath of One carrying all of our sins on His shoulders, we remember.
We are not perfect, but by those stripes we are healed.
And those limps we posses speak of the rush of heat from His hand pressed up against our wound so we could turn to you and share see this? This is where He touched me. This is where I was healed.