It’s been almost half a year since writing hardly anything for myself. A lot happens to a person. a lot goes misunderstood and I’ve found there’s almost a sort of sacredness that comes with the silence.

I suppose that never before have I understood the deep, sweet well of love in being counted worthy of the calling to patiently suffer and walk through a valley with the highest heights and the suffocating, darkest deeps. More and more I saw – what a privilege it is to feel pain. to feel sorrow. to feel aches. and to feel grief, though. And what a privilege it was to learn to count it all a joy.

It’s all been a beautiful fight for steadfastness, one with grace so kindly woven in. one, though branded with a harsh sort of uncertainty, missed chances, and all the could’ve beens, one also branded with a compassionate and purposeful sort of sovereignty and faithfulness.  Perhaps one might expect that the utmost joys stem from the days where this is no darkness or weariness of heart. But what comfort there is to be found in the paradox where quite the opposite rings true – that hope can be found in the long nights and cheerless mornings – that love can be found so extravagantly in the hells of this world – and that my boast becomes: I need Him most. I’ve been reading James an awful lot – and it’s been so good for my heart, reminding me of my helpless state and of the comforts in His everlasting arms.

At the end of it all, this four-year journey of schooling, I’m breathing. Breathing and learning to find myself again. I’m learning that I was loved – in the pain and in the sorrow, I was absolutely, undeservingly, and unswervingly loved – what a wonderful thing it is to behold.