Listening and Not Recovering.

I've been absent awhile, and I will not apologize for it. Although not all the time was well spent, it was time learned from.

I'm still here in the Mexico City, the capital of my parent's home country. Four months have come and gone, and I am tired, both the good kind and the bad kind.

I can no longer differentiate between Spanish and English in my mind, not that I could much before, but any trace of a line has disappeared. Ill start a prayer in English and flow into Spanish and end with a combination of both. 

Writing feels like home today, and not many things feel like home these days. Thats not because I'm over 2,000 miles away from where my family and friends are, but because I'm longing these days, more than I ever have before, to be where He is.

There might be a disconnect between some of the things that make their way into this post, but I trust the the Holy Spirit will fill the space between my incongruities.

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Last night, between tacos and cleaning the kitchen, I heard the call to pray. Its always gentle at first, like a distant rushing river. And with mercy the gentle rush turned into a roar and there was no use ignoring it-- even if i wanted to.

So, I ran, literally ran, to the rooftop. Not knowing where to start, I blurted out, "I'm here", and the conversation flowed from thereon out.
picture taken by Philippa Goodwin
Photo taken by Philippa Goodwin

Then, I got stuck; I hit a wall of sorts. I'd like to think that the Lord brought me to that wall to get past it. And the flow stopped. But as in a river, when the flow stops the pressure builds up behind it.

For a moment I stood there, looked around and held my breath. Then with eyes open, and almost no breathe within me, I crumbled. First, bent over releasing air, then gasping for it, but I just couldn't take in. Then to my knees where the air began to fill my lungs, where my meaning-filled silence echoed all around me and where steamy salty tears darted past my lips.

I got over the wall, or maybe i swam under it, or maybe it went through it, Im not really sure, but I overcame it. And it was only by repentance, sincerity, and mercy which was walled up behind me by way of His presence.

And it was then when the rubble was floating around and the dust was settling that I heard the Lord speak. It was the same voice that had called me to pray, but this time His tone had changed. It was less the voice of a Lover and more of a Father. Concerned, serious, and in a lovingly yet rebuking tone He asked me,

"Do you think I have forgotten?" 
"Do you think I do not see?"

Without Him having to say it, I knew He was beckoning me to trust Him even more, to live out of that trust instead of the twisted reality we sometimes live in that says that our God is alive, but He is forgetful, and that He is blind. What a terrible lie, but is was dispelled last night.

It took me awhile to put myself back together last night in a physical sense-- tears everywhere, no tissues, hair everywhere kind of thing, and now it is mercy that holds me together, but I'm not sure I will ever fully recover from it, and I do not want to. Then, I continued in prayer, praying from a place of freedom and dwelt there awhile with the Lord.
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The call to pray is becoming more and more familiar these days. Most times it doesn't need to get to the deafening roar--something about my ears becoming more attuned to it. 

Are your ears attuned to the call? You can only get attuned to something via two ways, discipline and exposure. Come to Him; learn from Him.






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