I’m starting to feel a bit like Andie Anderson from How to Lose a Guy in 10 days. I’ve spent most of the weekend working on a “how-to” article for my magazine writing class. The problem is that I’m having such a hard time writing about my topic, which is, ironically: inspiration. And yet, as I sit here, I’m not very inspired at all.
I would much rather be writing a personal essay, poetry or even a profile. Plus, who am I to be giving advice on…well, anything? It’s always a difficult thing for me to be an objective journalist. I just want to dive into a substantial story of emotion and depth, and with all strings attached.
But here I am! So if you need some advice this evening, I’m your girl!
There is nothing more romantic than waking up to the pitter-patter of pouring rain—sweet serenity!
You’ve heard my story, so you know I began to love at a young age. A fatherly love beyond any earthly father’s love, this is what I heard over and over as a child. And I adored the idea of a heavenly father. My dad lived a 9-hour drive up the California coast, and he’s always loved me well despite the distance. And my stepfather has always loved me like one of his own, though it took me some time to think of him as a father figure rather than a cool surfer dude who could throw me the length of our pool. So, I know I was loved, covered completely in twice the amount of fatherly love a little girl could ask for. But something about this heaven love seemed something like a mystery, something I had yet to know.
Now a grown college girl, I’ve experienced that love to my absolute core. I know mountains. I know valleys. I know the love of my Heavenly Father. But no one ever told me about the divine romance I would know of my King. It’s the way I know our love has grown. To feel the sincerity in his voice when He says my name. Or the way I can almost feel his nose on mine when singing a sweet melody of worship. His hands graze mine and I hear him echo similar songs back into my ear.
I’m still his stubborn little girl who wants control, and who wants independence. I’m still a child capable of tantrums when things don’t make sense. I’m his daughter He knows, and too often I treat him like an earthly father rather than one of heavenly status. Sometimes it amazes me how long He has loved me. And how He knew the first night I loved Him wouldn’t compare to the way I love Him today. It’s a love that grows. May it keep on.
Maybe it’s all the hopeless prayers I’ve spent on the painful series of my own broken heart, but I can never quite muster up the right words or enough faith to pray for others’ romantic healing. I’m convinced that God sees our broken hearts as a need for Him, and a smaller dependency on others; therefore, the broken hearts never quite heal. But I know I also lack faith when it comes to my own heart’s restoration. My heart cries, “it is well with my soul,” but my mind can only define the suffering with anger. I so deeply want to pray with reverence—with faith—with hope—with trust in His willingness. But I can’t. I can’t find the courage to pray for her broken heart. I can’t find the strength to petition her suffering.
Please pray for the broken hearts. We must have faith.