“While I was driving one day,” Flicka said, “I was overcome by the thought that that was the worst moment in some people’s lives.”
As she said it, I felt it too—a flash of heart-crushing, nerve-stripping, soul-wasting pain—and then it dissipated. We stood together at the entrance of the prayer room at a women’s conference, ready to intercede for any who would come. Other prayer team members were already inside the space, covering women with lifting words, bridging pleas, earnest requests—each pair a cord of three strands holding on together. Boxes of tissues sat on seats throughout the room, silent and ready. They had a ministry too. When they were created in a factory, did they know their purpose? Did they feel their calling when someone finally purchased them?
He notes our every wandering; Our tears are in His bottle.
I saw the sloshing of a bottle, and it grew big enough to hold the oceans: the collection of all pain, the walking on water, the east fleeing as far as it could go from the west. Winds blew, and His spirit hovered over the face of the deep.
Flicka was already tending to someone, and a woman stood in front of me, her expression curved in a question mark as she gazed at me, her eyes brimming.
“Let’s sit,” I said and motioned her to a safe place. The tissue box sat in silence, ready.
*Has My Blonde Life inspired or entertained you? If you wish to toss a tip into my writerly coffers, here's how you can do it: @Tamara-Schierkolk (Venmo), @TamaraSchierkolk (PayPal), or $TamaraSchierkolk (Cash App)
*Names in this blog have been changed to protect my family, neighbors, and friends in the neighborhood, and in a nod of appreciation to the beloved Swedish author Maj Lindman, I’ve renamed my three blondies Flicka, Ricka, and Dicka and their husbands, Snipp, Snapp, and Snurr.