Yesterday was about a thousand degrees and I think today was five, give or take, and I don’t know about you, but I’m not about to let the weather dictate my mood or my body or any of the universally precious and finite stuff that makes up me.
I mean, I have no control over the weather, but I sure do have control over my heart.
And I just want to be ready.
All the time, ready.
I say that with awe and some healthy trepidation, because I’ve seen what that can mean.
“Dear God, teach me to love,” I asked, and then I didn’t just have pleasant lessons with teachers and books and know-how that comes from googling.
It wasn’t nice, not at all.
I cried and my heart squeezed so tightly that I thought whatever was squeezing it wouldn’t stop until it was just clean gone. Until I was gone.
I didn’t know it’d stop only when the very shape of my heart had changed. When it’d become softer, more malleable. Like a sieve, able to let bitterness run like a river through it without getting stagnant or becoming it; to let forgiveness bloom within it like those flowers that manage to dot the cracks of city sidewalks. Those flowers are perfect. They are out of place. They are perfect.
I’m ready, I keep saying.
Dear God, please be kind, I’m also saying.
But here’s the thing, looking back and without glossing over a single moment, I must say that it is kindness that has led me here. And so I can only assume that kindness will continue to lead me not only to the broken places, but also through the broken places.
Which is why I will continue to say:
(And dear God, please be kind.)