I used to cry, really just bawl my eyes out, on a somewhat predictable 3 month cycle. Cried for passion and gifts unused. For a life I knew I was meant to live, but wasn't living. If I'm anything, I'm a passionate person. (Just like my mama and papa).:)
I was remembering some of those cry fests this last week. Remembering how unheard, unused, and confused I felt. Remembering how often I cried out to God for something more.
Remembering has made me laugh, and ( big surprise here) cry. In humility and swimming, nah-drowning, in God's boundless grace, I praise the one who is and is to come.
Maung Way's brother told us of their pleaded prayers. Of their brother missing, perhaps dead. They gathered that could, with tears on their cheeks , and prayed that their brother would be found to them, or that they would know for certain he had died. And of course I can't know for certain, but I sure do wonder, if that's not the exact moment I cried out for more and stumbled sleepily to my first refugee meeting all those years ago. Who's to say the exact moment God began knitting our stories together? But there are so many who can say that they were an answer to so many of my prayers and that we were an answer to so many of their prayers. What a strange and beautiful thing.