Treasuring: Mary at the Birth of Christ
I’ve filled countless journals with words that no one will ever read. No one. Ever. Because those words, well, they aren’t for your eyes. The Lord is faithful to meet me on the pages of His Scriptures, but He is also faithful to meet me on blank pages. Since I was old enough to put pen to paper, I’ve written and written and written, and He has faithfully read and read and read.
Secrets. Hopes. Dreams. Anger. A few lies. Guilt. Sadness. Fear. Excitement. Happiness. Disappointments. Wishes.
He has read stories I’ve made up. He has read words scrawled across the page in furious anger. He has read pages dotted with drops of tears—tiny memorials of disappointment and loss. He has read thoughts that trail off and are never finished. He has read of my deepest hopes and dreams—those things I’m almost afraid to speak aloud. He has read the words I’ve later Sharpie-markered through, guarding the thoughts I’m sorry I’ve had.
He has read. He has revealed Himself to me there. And He has revealed myself to me there. There—in those secret, sacred places and moments and thoughts and emotions, those things tucked up close to my heart where only the gentle hand of God can reach—He has known me and made Himself known.
He has reached. He has tended. He has covered.
And here, in handwriting all my own, I have a written record of His faithfulness to me.