Heart wounds

I wrote in my last post that we are facing some stuff and some things. A loved one is sick and while there is always hope, there is also a grief so deep that we find ourselves turned inside out. A few days ago I accidentally brushed against the iron and it seared the skin on my arm. It is red and raw and it will probably leave a scar. Seeing it reminds me that there are seasons when life is lived in the raw, that our hearts bear wounds that are, for a time, fresh and red and sensitive to the slightest touch.

Beneath this heart wound is the constant pulse and pull to be Home, to close the distance by an ocean and a country or two. As our hearts beat for home and healing, would you please lift a prayer on our behalf? Pray for wisdom, peace and signs and wonders too. I think I’ll probably go quiet on the subject for a while. So, if you return and find me rambling on about my beef with the laundry pile, do know that beneath the seemingly normal, we’re still living a bit sensitive to the touch.

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