In His Image

I’ve been feeling movement for a little while and the other evening I felt some definite kicks for the first time. After tucking our son in for bed, my husband and I sat on the couch discussing the details of the day. Then the nudging in my left side began and continued for several minutes. Eventually I exclaimed, “This baby… “

To glimpse the sun rising or setting calms my soul with peace. The light is beautiful. For a moment, all the worries of life fade away as the beauty captures my full attention. The light often reminds me of the Holy moment many years ago . .

I knew this was the best way to endure a teardrop season of waiting.Despite my circumstances, my King was worthy of my praise. I could confidently trust that His plans for me were good, even when my heart felt numb. I held onto His Promises, proclaimed His promises, believed His promises…and it was the only lasting comfort I found.

I became a lover of God’s Word when I was eighteen years old. It was the season of my life when I began to realize that if I were ever going to heal from a distorted view of myself, I needed to look to my Maker—to the One who designed me in His perfect image..

I stood behind a locked door, waiting for the minutes to pass and the bell to ring. Why I decided hiding in a bathroom stall was safer than being seen, I don’t remember, but it was. All the changes of adolescence were overwhelming and I was a young, insecure junior-high girl who opted to spend recess in the bathroom because I didn’t fit in, at least not from my view.

I felt different, like I didn’t belong.

While those years are now a distant memory, there are still moments when I feel different and out of place.

Cold air brushed across my cheeks as I turned the corner of my early evening run. Some of my best thinking is done in my running shoes as my heartbeat accelerates and fresh air relieves stress. As I descended downhill a question played on repeat in my mind…