meant to be.

She sang so sweetly sitting next to me, all blonde curls and guitar.

I closed my eyes and leaned back into the seafoam couch…catching the moment.

Her brother sat across the room, knowing each word that’d come next, having heard them all a million times before.
My roommate sat across the room wide-eyed.  Incredulous that this humble girl could lift the roof off with her sweeping soprano.
And I sat next to her, crying not quite as quietly as I would have preferred; crying around the words of worship I sang out with her.  I wasn’t crying because of the imagery she painted while strumming, the sand and the paper hearts…
I was crying because the moment itself was meant to be.

The heart and the voice and the curls…the girl…was intended to be a part of the patchwork of my life.  It was with sheer intent that God brought her and I together.  And it was an act of love on His part.  And I sometimes, sort of, mostly, okay…almost all the time, deny a loving God.
I let trials and troubles turn to tragedy.  And I let the sum of those tragedies equate the lack of the love of my God.

And so I cried.  I let God wash me with the very tender love that her sitting next to me singing made me squirm to feel.

To only see the tiring toddler in the pool is senseless.  To see the dad standing just inches away in the water is senseless.  To see the dad take one watery step after one watery step backwards from the baby’s outstretched fingers is senseless.
Unless you realize that that’s how you learn to swim.  He’s not mean, he’s not teasing with cruelty, he knows the babe’s limits.  And he’s there to take one watery leap forward to scoop up the beginner when the lesson’s over.

I just assumed He meant to let me drown.


I assumed anything good was a mistake…and all bad, all hurt, all ache-filled loneliness was the plan, the purpose…the intent of His heart to break mine.

Weeks of good could stretch on, but one hiccup, and my gallon-sized alligator tears would again drop into my pillows.

I’ll scratch and pull to gather the hurt, to stitch it all together into one convincing case that God doesn’t love me.

The case unravels constantly though…including this morning.
My pigtails swept across my shoulders as I looked left at returning friends then right at my loves and leaned back to stare heavenward as my secret love songs with God were played in succession and I sang to crack the roof off a little myself.

The message seemed personal…just like the passage…just like the worship…just like He meant for it to.

I snuck a peek at my friend Laura sitting next to me as her wee daughter’s baby hand rested on her shoulder and I thought, “some things are just meant to be.”  Her sweet little cheeks full and rosy, her two-teeth smiling, her long lashes surrounding sparkling almond eyes… Yea… that love was definitely meant to be.

I wish I could lay in the crook of His tangible arm, resting my hand on His shoulder; I don’t want to think He doesn’t want me.  I don’t want to believe He doesn’t love me anymore.

My toddler toes are tired of kicking, and the water’s starting to fill my lungs… so Dad… can you just take one watery step forward?

Cause you and I? … why, I believe we were meant to be.

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