Words on breaths not stolen.

By His spirit we have this being. This fleshy life, filled with gasps & gapes & cold silence & gentle stillness. By His spirit, we're all here. Physically. Mentally. By His spirit we live & move & breathe, & by His spirit our lungs are filled with this grace of given breaths, none stolen, by any means. 

& I think that's a huge part to not miss, the part in which each breath isn't something we take. We can't steal something from the king of all the universe that only He has the ability to give. He gives. He is the giver of life. The giver of little legs that run & the giver of hearts that race to catch up. Often, we struggle, & in those struggles where it feels as if our fists are punching full force with such speed & it feels as if we are giving it our everything & God is not showing up for the victory, in these moments we feel as if we are crawling on scraped knees, grasping at air, & suddenly each breath is our own doing.  Nobody is taking care of us or this situation & it's all we can do to breathe. To grasp for each air pocket. To cling. We feel the weight of it. We feel as if breathing is suddenly something we have to work towards. Like we're stealing each inhale from the hands of time. & breathing becomes such a powerless, brainless activity. We partake in communion without recognizing the blood in each breath. The depth. The nearness. 

So maybe that's it. Maybe breathing in is really just being fed. Simply accepting each breath, each moment. The struggle so weighty, the heart so crushed, & through this. Through it all. A breath. A continual yes. A you're going to make it, as He lifts the spoon to our lips & we accept through a deep inhale. Okay.

We breathe in. We say yes. 

Lord, I still trust you. I still believe in your goodness.

Isn't it beautiful, though? 

That thought, a reality check. Suddenly, our God isn't so far away nor a figment of the imagination. Suddenly, his presence through this death match isn't as 'ehh... maybe.'

Hand fed. Each breath. 

& I am speechless, as I stand beside Ezekiel in the dry desert heat, a valley of toasted carcasses scattered over the plains as far as the eye can see. Brittle, fragile, fried bones, & a miracle. A hope unforeseen, that God wouldn't make something new instead. That He would take these lifeless, aged bones & cloth them once more with muscle & flesh & freckles. That he would seal them with the promise of it is still good. That he would breathe into them. Life. He gives it. He sustains it. He controls its coming & going. So for His hand to be spoon-feeding our every breath?

Yes. Wildly, truly, passionately. Yes.

By your Spirit, Lord, I am speechless. Because these are the times I wonder how these lungs still grasp this air & how this mind remembers to wake at five thirty in the morning when every other memo is a hopeless wanderer. & yet, each breath. I am right here, love. Each breath. Don't be afraid. Each breath. You're doing great. Each breath. 

I'm learning a thing or two about time, beginning & ending with the fact that it is not on my side. & it's hard, through the chaos. Through the total-upheaval-kind-of-mess where you can't find a darn thing to save your life & if the house was on fire you would probably forget the cat inside. I stand in the middle of the mental state brought to you by a very complicated end to a relationship & a grandfather's last days. & I would like to say that I saw one of the two coming. Or I would like to say that I know why God dropped this all into my lap at once. Or I would like to say something. Anything at all, really. Anything that would give me peace & you hope. I like the pretty bows & the happy endings. But I don't know, & my shoulders are shrugging the same as yours. But I wanted to share this, because when the words haven't even come easily, God gave me breath. He continues to. & sweet love, if you take anything from this, I pray you feel the cold spoon pressed against your lips. Because that is how we know everything. There is our seal. There is our promise. He is here, love. & we can't always feel him. We can't always see him through the pouring rain, because everything's not always hunky dory. But we can know his distance is a breath away, as our Giver is still generously pouring His spirit through these brittle bones. 

Each breath, hand fed. Each breath.