Sitting on a low wooden stool, surrounded by stacks of greeting cards, my children’s artwork and mementos I’d kept since before college, I capture a small snapshot of my life. Maybe more like a refrigerator collage of all the best moments.
We’re pulling ourselves from the solitude inside the house during this forced waiting period, past the invisible walls of resistance, into the garage. The garage that looks like a battlefield of surrender; boxes half empty, childhood trinkets strewn on top of, well, whatever flat surface looks cleanest and most sturdy.
We haven’t been swept up into the clouds yet but daily life feels a bit foggy.
Soldiers for Christ, they don’t just walk away and abandon hope when disappointed.
I pull dated letters from dusty boxes and it’s as if God is highlighting frames of my story through handwriting of the saints, revealing how I got to this place.
Isolation, it tricks you into forgetting that God has a master plan for your life, that you matter.
But God, He isn’t making up your storyline like an impromptu reading of poetry in the middle of your quiet dinner. No, He doesn’t say, “Oops, I wasn’t planning on that” or “I don’t know what to do about that now.”
Words penned and forgotten, piled in boxes hanging with silky strands of spider webs, they still beat with life, pulsing with the promise of fulfillment.
As long as you are alive, He is dedicated to you. Even now, those friendships aren’t random or conversations insignificant, they are an integral part in the process of your salvation.
You are not forgotten.
Sometimes it takes a waiting period to notice the kindness of redemption. The way He is present in every detail; in every moment of stubborn silence.
Boxes of forgotten moments, they are a foreshadowing of life calling — one person, one place, one season at a time. A confirmation that you are headed in the right direction when you feel lost without GPS or a road map.
He’s never in a rush because love isn’t pushy.
I believe but help me remember that tomorrow.