I clung to my shadow on the floor, frozen and fighting what was rising up inside of me. The Lord was calling me out of a place of hiding, out of the arms-crossed-mouth-tightly-shut-self-preservation-seeking way of living I’d known for so long. I begged the Lord for an extension. But it was time. And it was rising and reaching and caught in my throat. I heard Him say, “I want your words.”
Someone asked me to speak. I shook my head. I had no words. My eyes shot a quick “pass me by”. But my Guate family was unwilling to let me or this moment be passed by.
They asked me to pray out loud. I had no words. They asked questions. I had no words. I felt nearly paralyzed. I did not move from my soaked shadow on the floor. “I want your words. Give Me your words.” Even my voice felt frozen with fear. Repeatedly, I found my hand pressed against my mouth as though it could hold back what the Lord was asking of me.
I so badly wanted to apologize to every corner of the room and ask to be left alone. But I had no words. I had sobs, shakes, and snot, no words. I was crawling out of my skin to run and hide, but something deep and true in me agreed with their soft, warm breaths of “just let go”. Those words fell around me, cradled my spirit, and crushed my walls.
Bit by bit, I managed to spill painful, salty whispers.
As they fell from my lips, I felt both relief and exhaustion. I wanted someone to say, “Enough. She’s had enough, done enough, said enough.” But time seemed broken, and I heard still, “Daughter, I want your words. Give Me your words.”
It’s been two months, and He’s still asking for my words. So here I am spilling them out, struggling to give birth to whispers until I realize I can shout. Matthew 10:27. It’s coming.
