No Hands

Sometimes even the one who finds words to be their heart’s outlet needs to live the story and not write about it.

The swirl in our lives and around this adoption has been rich with color and depth we didn’t anticipate. I am living (daily) death and restoration through a story unfolding on African soil.

I’ve found solace with my face to the floor and begun to know prayers that are groans, not words. Most days I have no words.

So while posts may be sparse, as we’re not released to tell the story (and, if we were, I’m not sure I would have words to do it justice), my need to adore has only increased. When I’m not here, you can find me over there.

The little girl hiding behind my thirty-something self has maybe only once, in a fleeting moment, entertained the idea of leaving the wind at my back and my arms outstretched while I soar on my bike. This adoption and the Man behind it has ushered me into a taste of what it could be like to live with my hands off the handlebars.

And I might not go back.

God is so good.