Her Sunday outfit is perfect, yet she teeter-totters in her stacked summer heels. We exchange a tight embrace in solidarity, knowing full well that a mountain of uncertainty stands defiantly before her.
“You are a strong tower.” I impart into her soul. Her hazel eyes become emblazed as the afternoon light makes its way into our church lobby.
“I don’t think so.” Instead she holds up her white flag of surrender smudged in human stains of sin:
Of growing up with the ravages of a parent’s struggle with alcoholism.
Of caring for a child with a rare and incurable disease.
Of betrayal of the unholiest kinds by her life partner.
I want my friend’s emotional healing to be swift. I don’t want her to slip into anger or fear. I think of Christ in his sorrows, acquainted with grief, despised and esteemed not (Isaiah 53:3).
I imagine her bare feet, carefully balancing themselves on life’s high wire. As if she were Philippe Petit, French tightrope walker extraordinaire: Don’t you dare slip off, my friend. Promise that you’ll continue to stand.
You, who travels the freshwater currents of life with deft speed amidst the choppy blue.
Our wounds can become easily anesthetized, right?
We can shop for what we don’t need. Or sow illicit sin-seeds that turn into uncontrollable weeds, choking the life-dreams that we alone are meant to cultivate.
I think of who God created women to become. In wounding Adam, God creates Eve. As women, we are the embodiment of long-suffering and hope; we can exercise strength of character in the midst of the hard trials.
Fascinating how we have the strength of man inside of us, along with God’s feminine attributes. We can offer our forgiving hearts and seek restoration. We can surrender to inner-healing when life becomes unbearably painful. And we are also incredibly strong. Resilience courses through our veins. But, can we remember that in our difficulties?
God is the one who provides spiritual balance lest we dash ourselves on sharp rock or slippery stones. He enables us to stand on mountainous heights, he is our sure-footing, as Psalm 18:33 declares.
Gravity pulls at the tear that slips from my friend’s mascara-smudged eyes; I imagine her from a bird’s eye view, as the indwelling of God begins to heal her brokenness.
She becomes a holy cross of sorts; her frame and posture vertically kissing the afternoon sky. God is her balancing stick as she cautiously places calloused and tired feet on the tightrope of life, praying that it is well with her soul.