Clasped hands and solid feet.

I have a confession to make. One that shames me and sadden's me. For the past six months the Father and I haven't exactly been on the best terms. Well, He's always been right there, I'm the one whose taken one or two or 50,000 steps in the wrong direction, which is any direction not directly attached to Him.

My heart aches for the time I've wasted in my grumbling and anger and laziness. For the past couple of months my heart, my body, and my mind have felt like they've been in a big plastic bag. At first the bag is roomy and isn't really that stifling but each day I spent away from the Father the bag would close in on me. Each day it grew tighter and tighter until finally I reached the point where I was suffocating because I wasn't abiding in the Father.

So what did I do? I reached for His hand, His beautiful hand. And He pulled me from my miry pit and set my feet on solid ground. I can breathe again. And the relief of it is indescribeable.

I imagine that in my walk with God I will go through more dark times. Times where I don't feel like working things out, times where I'm angry at God and think I know best. But I am heartened and ecstatic that my Father, the King of the Universe, takes the time to knock on the door of my heart every day. Today, today, and today I'm letting Him in.