Long before The Sanctuary, there was the sunroom.

I sat there today in my oversized rocker, the one that had taken the place of the other, with my art journaling Bible in my lap.

Grief mixes with the colorful intention laid out before me.

My heart settles into the now-familiar rhythm that has become part of my morning liturgy.

Accepting where I am with Scripture is not where I wish I could be:

one small thought,
something to color,
and time with Jesus.

Communion through movement.

Through choosing color.

Through staying.

A bridge back.

I pulled out my notebook journal—the white one with gold flowers embossed on its cover—wishing for words to return that once flowed so freely.

The Sanctuary, finished and filled with language that testifies to ash and deliverance, does not translate into capacity for what had been stripped bare—

no matter how much the living woman wills it.

Not yet.

I tried to write a prayer, but the words would not come onto the page.

The quiet conversation inside me has returned.

I can talk to Jesus there.

In the center.

Where my living essence belongs.

And that alone is precious.

Miraculous.

Sacred to its core.

I do not take it for granted.

Eventually, I wrote:

Let His face shine upon you.

Then I looked up.

Across the room sat Sanctuary Girl, the little planter who became the first symbol I chose for The Sanctuary.

Her eyes were closed.

Sunlight was pouring over her face.

I almost missed it.

Had I kept my head down, searching for more words, the light might have moved before I saw her.

So I stopped.

I connected.

I watched.

I let the delight wash over me.

And I thanked Jesus.

I had been trying to find the words to tend my relationship with Him.

Instead, He turned my gaze just in time and tended me.

There was nothing more I needed to make of it.

Only to be there with Him while the light was still shining.

Sometimes communion is that simple.

The sunlight came first.

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From the Journal: Secure Attachment Before Language →