She spun in a circle and closed her eyes. Silly for a nearly 37-year old wife and mom to turn around and around like a child in the middle of her living room on a Sunday morning. But this was not like a child. This was a desperate attempt to regain something. A cry to heaven to show her the way.
She blindly stepped toward the bookshelf; her fingers fumbling and finally resting on a curly bind of a spiral notebook — almost completely blank save one single poem she’s written years ago about the assurance of heave — a far-off promise. But she needed direction now. A touch. A word today. A sign without delay. Something…anything would satisfy her hunger at this point.
But she didn’t even get a book. At least a book would have told her something. Perhaps give her the motivation to push through the day, but a blank journal? It didn’t even have words, minus the one-line quips scattered-printed in the margins.
Was God telling her that she needed to do the talking? That it was her turn? In the past, she would have been able to fill the pages with an endless supply of prose and prayers. But lately, she was dry. Searching. Which is why she spun like a child in the first place. Didn’t God know this?
Unfortunately, the blank notebook seemed fitting. God once again proved distant even with her attempts to draw near. She’d spent countless hours contemplating what she’d done so wrong that God stayed silent to her request for His fellowship, but she came up short. Sinless – no, but not entrenched in any behavior that would separate her from the presence she so desired.
And now here she stood, empty pages before her mocking her. Asking her to produce words she didn’t possess.
She rummaged through a box for something to write with and retrieved a pencil with barely an eraser. Great. Now she couldn’t even correct her mistakes if she dared to attempt pressing the gray pencil lead on the white abyss.
Just as she began pouring her 2-widow’s mites worth of thoughts onto the pages – she got the urgent call of a three-year-old needing “the purple one.” Whatever that meant.
When she finally sat back down after putting out a series of toddler-sized fires, she noticed her erase less stylus was MIA.
Wasn’t this always the way?
Her directionless attempts at communion thwarted by the incessant demands of life? Pencils lost in the cracks of life?
But the paper beckoned.
Maybe there was something hidden within the blank spaces.
She located her yellow #2 partner in crime.
Here, in this moment, she was given whitespace.
Whitespace – a term for artists defined as a blank spot on an artistic creation that allowed the eyes a moment of rest.
Maybe this blank canvas was just what she craved. The rest of her life produced minimal whitespace. Limited moments of relaxation for her soul.
Maybe her spinning trick – her plea for God’s leading — did work after all.
Maybe His ears were bent down listening.
Maybe this was His voice saying:
“Sweet mom, wife, sister and friend, I SEE you. Pouring out your life as a drink offering for my sake. Now it’s your turn to be filled. Make your own list of infinite demands. Write all you need and desire on these pages so I can begin my work.
As you’ve been the keeper of the home, I’ll be the keeper of your heart.
As you’ve fulfilled the needs of little voices, I’ll fulfill the needs you vocalize.
As you’ve concerned yourself with reading My Word, I’ll concern myself with reading yours.
As you’ve loved freely, as will I.
As you’ve attended the wounds of the brokenhearted, I’ll be sure to bind up your own.
Whatever you ask in my name, I’ll complete.
Here are your pages.
Here is the space I’ve supplied.
Messy, without erasing. Lay it all out.
As you fill these pages, you will be filled.”
Perhaps she’d mistaken his silence for absence.
Maybe He’d been sitting across from her waiting for her to stop spinning and start writing.
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