SCRAWLED IN TEARS AND INK

On the floor between my hope chest and dresser, there was a crumpled paper. It must have drifted there when I yanked a satchel from the corner of my closet. Curious, I picked it up to examine, remembering where it was from: two lines ran up and down its spine to form a cross. Printed on one side was a patient's schedule chart, the other, my words scrawled in uneven lines. 

My words; I remembered writing them, desperate, pleading, but I could not remember what they were. I stood, the sheet quavering in my hand, my eyes sweeping the page in disbelief. I stopped, filled my lungs with night air rushing in from the open window and lowered to my knees and started again, this time slower, taking in sentence by sentence. 

No. Jesus. How is this real? I said this--? I said this to you. I prayed this, so long ago, I prayed this... and here it is, here I am.

He wanted me to see it tonight. To help me remember and see how he has been answering that prayer so long ago scrawled in tears and ink, and you know, it is beautiful to grasp a small handful of him, his unending faithfulness to me. 

How lovely Jesus is. 

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