May There Always Be Kindling In Your Home

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“Labor to keep alive in your breast that little spark of celestial fire…” -George Washington

F_Michaela

I like to think I’m a strong woman. I like feeling in control and in charge of the situation. I like to have tools and to-do lists and everything in its place.

This false sense of security seems to disappear in an instant—usually when we end up in the hospital with my daughter. It’s the Emergency Room that does me in. Her last admission happened smack dab in the middle of January. The ER was packed with wheezing, coughing children and monstrous germs—a very dangerous place for her. I marched my way up to the front and asked that they admit her as soon as possible. The nurse rolled her eyes, and pointed at the lineup—but had mercy on us when she saw my trembling lips.

As the child across from us threw up in a cardboard bowl, I began to dissolve. My reservoir of strength was bone dry. I could not keep my chin up any longer. I couldn’t remember the names of Florence’s medications. I couldn’t think straight. All I could do was cry. In that moment, I was humbled by my companion—trauma.

Once we were settled in her room in intensive care, and I had reorganized, re-cleaned and re-fluffed everything, I felt a bit better, but not great. I rocked myself into a meditative state on the cushy, blue rocking chair. And then I felt it flicker. A little flame of courage, a nudge from the Spirit.

I can do this.

To me, these are the most powerful words, when my husband says them over me or when I say them over myself. And the God that dwells in the celestial blues and the earthly browns says them over me too.

You can do this.

Lovelys, I may not know of the battles you face in the forger—but I do know you hold a flame in your belly. So if fear threatens to dissolve your hope, or the dream starts to morph into something unrecognizable, don’t let those embers sigh.

May your pockets be lined with flint stone as you walk through the hurting places. May an inner, silent strength fortify your bones on your weakest days.

May the salty and bitter seasons that have dragged you through mud, also bring forth an unsung tune. May you find the melody and the words.

May the lines on your face tell a different story. May your wind chapped cheeks continue to crack crescent moons, spilling out the joy you have laboured for.

May this fire, however small, propel you to sling stones at giants. May your bad days and labour pangs culminate not into catastrophe, but into song.

These seasons that have left you cavernous, hurt and shattered—they are also the ones that allow you to fill again.

Hollow turned full.

Flicker turned to flame.

Joy when you are battle weary.

A bellowing voice when there is silence.

Fortification when the walls of your heart are weak.

Lovely ones, may there always be kindling in your home.

And may you be a Woman who Roars.

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