I knew I was deep in foggy valley of death and destruction. I couldn’t explain it. I could semi list all the things I was destroying, but my name never made the list. I mean I was praying, after all. I wasn’t some Matthew 6:7 heathen. Jesus wasn’t flipping my table Matthew 21:12 and Mark 11:15. Even better, I flipped my own tables. Looking back, I was the walking dead. I was very much physically alive, but I was rotting away inside. I wasn’t just walking around dead, OH NO! I was walking around shoving my rotten spirit at others. All the things I was striving not to be, became me. I was angry and I lied about being angry. I lied about being able to control it. I was like child in Ephesians 4:14 child, being tossed to and fro and carried about by whatever wind my anger, sadness, blame and shame could muster up for the situation. It was when I dug deeper into this scripture that I seen what I had been. I was tossed, which is to lightly or casually be thrown. It was easy, casual to be thrown. I was used to it, it was comfortable. I was being casually thrown to and fro, which is actually a back and forth reciprocating movement, plus, as a noun it means the inability to decide. So me. One day I felt this way and the next I felt the opposite way. I had no true firm decision. I was also being carried which can mean supporting the weight of. I was carrying the weight of everything while being tossed back and forth in my inability to decide on something as simple as yes or no. The wind that was carrying me was more of the breath needed for physical exertion and speech. Some days the wind of speech was like a hurricane that was flipping tables, or throwing cookie jars. Other days there was me, clenched fists holding my breath unable to move. Knowing that letting any wind escape my body would have me laying in the floor sobbing from a place so deep that no human could touch it. I had a spirit so wounded, so broken, so angry that I knew it would take a miracle to even attempt to fake heal it. There was no way, no way, to actually heal it. I was a walking, talking, praying for the other guy dead lady. There couldn’t be a way back. After the things I had to survive, there just wasn’t anymore miracles left for me. I had made my choice that my faith was for others. My belief in God was for other people. That I wasn’t ever going to know God, I mean really know Him, until I died. I was prepared for the long wait, I had already tried to get God to take me and He told me no. So I resigned to wait it out. Who knew that Jesus was such a gentle yet stubborn Savior? I found out. He continued relentlessly to pursue me, not force Himself on me, just pursue me. I’d give a little, and then remember another reason I had to be angry and freeze. Then step forward a bit. Each step, even the small ones, still moved me forward. Could I ever be made alive again, like in Ephesians 2: 1 , 2:5 was there hope like Ezekiel 37:1-14 and could my dry bones come back to life? I had my doubts, but I did find a little bit of faith, just a mustard seed of faith (Matthew 17:6), that God could start CPR on my spirit. It is that same mustard seed of faith that I so desperately grip onto all day long. It is that small seed of faith that I can feel starting to break open deep within me. Could it honestly be getting ready to root? I don’t know, but I feel like Jesus says it is and today I’m holding tightly to my mustard seed of faith that He’s right.
My Faith Ministry 
One Reply to “”