I’m sitting here, the sun is over my paper. The light shows up every slight pit and texture. Is that how it is when you look at me? Your light, your holiness exposes me. What looks smooth – white, ready to fill with words – when under close inspection looks rouch, is marred and dented. I could go on about metaphors – my mind creates them constantly. What do you see when you look at who I am? You know every detail, every smooth, every rough, every covered section. You know what words my choices will write on my life, you know what words I will let you write and those I’ll scrawl in my own impatience.
God you remind me over an dover how you chose me, how you love me. When I went to walk yesterday, to be alone, to even maybe spend some time talking with you – you were reminding me just how much you love me. It was strange but I hardly got a word in edgeways. You slowed me down. It wasn’t an overwhelming sense of anything, it wasn’t audible, it wasn’t filling, crowding my mind. Just a heightened sense of being right where I was, a greater reality. It was an understanding. Your still small voice. You don’t work like we do.
Those words fail to explain it, it wasn’t surprising or magnificent. I felt like me, not anything more.
This is how much you love me. More than experience here will allow me to understand. More than anyone can tell me, stress upon me. More than a walk and a faint idea. More than the words that can be written. More than a touch. More than a smile. Much more.