I will not be moved.

I imagine if I proclaim, declare, or out rightly profess there is a hope unshakeable, a truth undeniable, and a power unquenchable, a few eyebrows would rise and the scribble from the pen on the paper to remind the oncologist how foolish I am later that night as he reflects back on his hum drum day, where one report after the next is negative and where one ounce of hope is snuffed out with fact, and one miraculous word is coughed over with a big old fashioned hogwash that I be the wife full of mullock. But I am saying, it is happening day by day, hour by hour and one long minute after the next. My head has pounded the wall more than I would like for it to have. My fists are bloody from pounding the ground and my knees…absolutely seized. I am not as agile as in my youth. Oh my youth. Again, and again, I am looked down on as a foolish youth, but my youth like faith is just how I want it to remain: unshakeable, undeniable, and unquenchable. I can be hot headed, arrogant, and rather crazy, but I refuse to be moved by man’s word. I want only to be moved by His word.

Rescuer, rescue.

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I close my eyes and the instant spiral of despair grasps me close. These arms are familiar. This chest I rest my head and burrow myself into is an old acquaintance, one who I knew well. Depression has no face, it only has a body that carries and holds close, tightly, so tight there is little room for breath. Is this the road I really want to go down again? My mind is exhausted and my heart is bothered. I can’t watch the slow motion picture before me. It is gruesome, haunting, and dark. I reach my hands up and I scream, to be held back by sincere spectators, but there is no time, the destroyer is destroying. We were told this would happen, but I can’t sit still and accept. I can’t stand tall to conform, to compromise, or to even obey if it goes completely against everything I believe or know to be true. For now, I hide inside this blue hurricane’s tempest and cover my eyes in this familiar shadow’s pain, until my Rescuer does only what He can do.

Image Credit: Goose Girl at Gruchy, by Jean-Francois Millet