I hate needles. Maybe despise is a better word.
The bigger the needle, the bigger the panic attack.
But the day came when I had to go to the ER.
Dehydration got the best of me and the nurses decided to stick me with a needle the size of a ruler called an IV.
I cringed. I begged. I cried.
I wanted this thing off of me.
Little did I know the very thing that was hurting me, served to make her stronger.
For the 4th time that hour it replayed in my mind. But the more I pressed rewind, the more I altered the details.
I remember facing this weird, Eve/Serpent moment in my life where I was questioning what God really said in the first place. Now more than ever, I needed Him to repeat, reaffirm, and give me a sign that this promise that I thought I heard wasn’t just a figment of my imagination.
Smack dab in the middle of the most traumatizing event of my life, when I needed him the most, God decided to remain quiet.
I’ve avoided writing this post for a while now. Maybe because I’m petrified of falling in love.
Or maybe it’s because I’m selfish.
There. I said it.
My feet wouldn’t touch the ground.
Okay, maybe I wasn’t exactly defying Newton’s law of gravity but my life sure felt like it.
I remember reaching a place in my twenty-somethings where everything seemed gray. I was floating. Dreams and plans that were once confidently black or white, turned into a nauseating shade of gray and left me wondering how God’s faithfulness played in this.
There’s an unwritten rule in the church that prohibits tears.
I’m not exactly sure where this rule stemmed from. But somewhere between my baptism and sophomore year of college when I failed Accounting with Professor Fairchild, I learned Christians shouldn’t cry.