dear diary – not forsaken

oh hello, words on a page.  hello, white screen and black keys and blank, lifeless thoughts.  I feel as though someone stuck a tube into my brain and sucked out all of the words and deep thoughts and contemplative reasonings that give way to profound words and poetic phrases.  Lately, it’s been nothing. I have had no inspiration.  Everyone says, write.  Just write.  But how can you write when you cannot write and you have not one undying word left in you?

So.  I write.

Lately, I have been infatuated with the word ‘not forsaken’.  It has come up in the songs I sing and the phrases I hold to.  Not forsaken.  We sang it today:

Whate’er my God ordains is right:
here shall my stand be taken;
though sorrow, need, or death be mine,
yet am I not forsaken.
My Father’s care is round me there;
he holds me that I shall not fall:
and so to him, I leave it all.

And I sang it yesterday, the comfort of my car:

The night is dark but I am not forsaken
For by my side, the Saviour He will stay
I labour on in weakness and rejoicing
For in my need, His power is displayed

I’ve noticed my father’s care more and more recently, and it astounds me.  There has been so much change in my life in the last few months, including how I see God.  What is a father?  What is He like?  No, what is He really like, un-tainted by human imaginations of fatherhood?  Recently, it has been, “he is a father who does not forsake.  He does not forsake His children.  He does not forsake His promises. ”

Yes, you can look at the children of Israel and say, He does not forsake.  Crazy, grumblers; He still did not forsake them.  You can look at the Church of the Old Testament and say, He does not forsake.  Fearful, persecuted Church; He still did not forsake them.

But Sophia.  Crazy, grumbling, fearful, faithless, selfish, needy, hungry…He still does not forsake even you.  You too have been beckoned with open arms and held close.  His stamp is upon even you; it rang out with a loud and righteous fury as it clapped down on your papers of freedom: not forsaken.  You can rest there, Sophia.

Rest in the hand that wrote, forgiven on your tombstone and lifted you from a life of death.

Rest in the one who continues to lift you from a life of death.

Rest in the Father who is completely perfect; who will not fail or forsake you.

Not forsaken.

This, too, is my anthem cry.

 

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