The snow this morning, waking up to no school when I was sure there would be. The most perfectly timed snow day in the world. The retreat this weekend, and the imperfections of my youth group and His whole family all tied together somehow with the blood of the Lamb. How my sister and I go back and forth with the easiness of fifteen years of sharing the same life. How I see old faces mixed together with new ones and this settling into a routine that feels scary at first, but I know will soon feel like home. These friends, this family, and the God who walked by my side in the halls every morning, from the glee of first hour to the desperation of fifth, of thinking I can't possibly do this, of not knowing quite where I fit in yet. How I'm still alive, still breathing and looking to bed and Bible and tomorrow. How he promises to not let me fall. In the voices of my teachers, how they do care, each of them, in their own way and their own time. How he loves me with every breath, and how he died for me in the dark. And how morning always comes, and I'm reminded that faith is for me. Advent is for me. The cross is for me, Immanuel, God with me. And then, knowing I'm safe with Him, getting to tell others the best I can, and still be safe in His arms. The purpose of living towards the kingdom, but also the quiet hours. My heart beating, this blood pumping through my veins is God telling me that he cares for me. This expectation, this breathlessness that knows the best is yet to come, and is still sort of already here. There's something terribly wrong with this world, but He is here and making all things new, and that's a promise.
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