He asked me, “Son [Daughter] of man, can these bones live?” (Ezekiel 37:3)
I was thankful to my mom for keeping Ezra so that this morning I had a chance to sit down at the table and spend time with God, worshipping Him in freedom afterwords with no one in the house but me.
Not a few hours. Not a whole night without someone staying with me in my room. Not one day. Not three weeks. Not a couple months before giving in. Not one year.
I cut myself for the first time in a dorm room on the campus of a liberal arts college in Alabama with a pair of blue handled scissors. I cut myself for the last time thirteen years ago, today. At this moment, I am laying on a couch in a beautiful home, married to the best man God ever made, and watching my six month old sleep sideways in a blue recliner.
I have a story.
There was a chapter of my story thirteen years ago in which my dry bones should not have come back to life. I was cutting myself, throwing up my food, self-medicating, and looking for love in dark places. My bones were dry and even the doctors and therapists weren’t sure if I would make it back to life again. I am so thankful, that in the end, they were not the ones writing my story. I am also thankful that there was a day in my mom’s kitchen when I specifically gave God control of a story I had taken into my own hands. Through His word, faith, acceptance, and belief, I breathed Him in until the hate, anger, anxiety, fear, and lies gave way to His truth and a freedom that could only come from a living God.
It was a miracle. It is a miracle. I am a miracle.
And like any miracle, I at times need to let go of control (again), call out the lies (again and again), and breathe Him in (moment by moment) — in stillness. Because while I never stopped being a miracle, I also didn’t stop living. There have been times when my bones have become dry again, but thank God, that I’m further along in my story and I’ve learned many things. Thank him that even when things look confusing or when loss leaves a huge hole or loneliness and physical health creep into the paragraphs … it takes me less pages to see the One who has the Pen. You know the author with the capital “A,” not the one with the pencil that erases, breaks lead.
A couple of years ago, I asked God to bring me to life again after a season of sickness. I was weary, and He answered that prayer by giving me a whole new life inside a womb at times a worried might remain empty.
The helper. His name means salvation. I have learned so many things about God through my relationship with my son. God’s spirit brushing my mind and reminding of Him as Papa.
There have been many times that I have looked down at my infant son and I have seen my eyes, my hands … I have seen my image in him. It’s an amazing, yet strange feeling. Since the moment I first held him, He has had the most intense gaze — as if he knew way more than he should. He is joyful, peaceful. His is beautiful and soft. Daily, I have held him, kissed him. I have inspected his little hands while he slept, smelled him as his head rested against my chin. I have been in awe of how fast he learns, how intuitive and empathetic God has made him. I have had messages sent straight to me from Heaven from a baby not even a year old. I thought of the great love I had for my son and how proud I was before he even did anything. I think he is the most special person I’ve ever met.
I also began to realize, because there are things you just can’t know until you experience them, is that my parents thought that way about me, before I had ever done anything worth praising. My mom and dad thought I was the most special little girl ever. A miracle.
I used to cut myself.
I have thought about God the Father. I have relished Him as creator. His word says I am created in His image. Do you know what that means? When, God looks at me He sees himself, just like I see myself in my son’s eyes and his hands. I hope as I’ve grown He sees himself more and more. I was his masterpiece. Am. His word says He knitted me together in my mother’s womb. He delights in me because He made me. The artist and His artwork. The great love I have for my son, his love for me is unfathomably greater.
God was the only one who ever got to see me cut myself. He saw every time.
On a new scale, I understand some things. I can imagine now how horrific it must be to remember that baby you held in your arms that you loved so much, bleeds by their own hand. I remember the baby that I hold in my arms that I prayed for and cannot comprehend an instant in which someday he might now understand how special he is, how much he was wanted, how much he is loved, and how much he is worth to me or to God.
How must have God felt? Yet, He held my hand. He allowed me to walk through a season of hurting where I wore hundreds of marks at given times on my arms and my hips. I cannot imagine. He felt it all. He counted every tear.
He kept writing.
“This is what the Sovereign Lord says to these bones: I will make breath enter you, and you will come to life.” (Ezekiel 37:5)
Today I so thankful for the God who formed my bones, knowing before I ever took a breath, He would have to breathe life back into them. I am thankful that the Father that saw me cut the skin that he sculpted around those bones … the daughter He delights in … was the only one who could help me overcome.
Today I asked Him to breathe life into my dry bones again. Bones that have been lonely and that carry the whisper of lies that I sometimes take too long to shake. I asked Him to breathe life into me for the specific purpose of loving Him more and praising Him more. I asked that nothing else be dear to me.
I thanked him for my life.
I thanked him for His life. (because I gave mine away long ago)
I thanked him for the life I am honored to snuggle in my arms daily.
I love Him as healer.
I am a miracle. I am a miracle. I am a miracle.