If I could reach back and trace the pink face not yet

troubled and embroiled in years, stroke little fingers,

And nuzzle dependent heart, would it make a difference in your dying?

 

No.

 

There should be no surprise—obeying God leads to rolling the dice with men.

I carried complete power and total submission in my womb nine months.

But, even as I nursed truth, I struggled

to die to motherhood.

The cross was born of my obedience.

 

Your heart now beats in the tender words spoken to

the desperate and despised. We fellowship with bread offered

to empty bellies.

Our hope is planted, watered, and grows in resurrected soil.

And I breathe. . . Oh, my soul breathes

deeply the fragrance of your presence with me. The cross did not

separate us, it made us one!

You live in the past, present, and future, and I find you in the gutters of obedience.