Tuesday, December 6, 2011


Sitting still.

Quiet mind.

I inhale {Abba}

and exhale {I belong to You}.

I let it sink in.

It becomes my cadence.

The rhythm of my life.

Like shingles nailed down to something secure.

Every fabric of my being is rooted in this.

Rooted in You.

For You are my truth.

You are true.

My Good Father.

My delight.

I sit here, eyes closed, and lose myself in Your countenance.

I seek Your hands, not for what they hold, but for You.

To hold Your hand.

To be held.


I belong to You, my Good Father.

And my pressed lips break the silence, to speak of Your return.

Maranatha; Our LORD cometh.


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