Hello, Little Beautiful.
This morning, you crawled into my bed and snuggled right up to me. Usually, I would have been pleasantly woken up, but this morning you were hot and sweaty—feverish, though you don’t really understand that concept yet. You wouldn’t tell me how you were feeling or answer any questions; you merely wanted to be covered up in bed with me.
So that’s what we did until the sun rose and your fever finally broke.
Once your temperature lowered, I gave you a cold bath and dressed you in clean clothes. You ate a little for me, but now you’re asleep on my lap. Your breathing is a lot easier than it was this morning. I can feel your heart against my chest, our inhales and exhales in sync.
I wonder what it was like for you, waking up, not knowing what a fever was but knowing something was wrong. I am realizing that even then, with no true concept of the danger, you were afraid; and aware of that fear, you came to me. I couldn’t fix it, but I could stay with you until it lifted.
Turns out, that was all you really wanted and needed.
It’s still like that, Little Beautiful. Sometimes, you feel the danger of something on your spirit, hot and heavy like a fever. You feel those corrosive thoughts, edgy doubts, and unwanted feelings. There are days when every witness you can conjure in your mind condemns you, and every glance you get from the public eye glints with hatred and envy. There are moments, when grief and anxiety—feral like a disease—take over every waking thought.
If you can’t move forward; If you can’t think straight; If you keep falling short of where you feel you are supposed to be; that’s okay. If there is no place for you to go, that’s okay.
Just go home.
When your mind is a whirlwind of a million thoughts, and you can’t put them in order, that’s alright. Just remember what it was like to wake up with a fever and wander into my room. Just remember what it was like to wake up with a pain you couldn’t solve and want only for safety you knew I could offer.
I might not be in your future, Little Beautiful, but God is.
Go to Him with that aching in your head, crawl into His bed, and trust that He can care for you. Give Him everything that’s weighing you down, and trust that He can hold you up. Let Him be your relief, your confidant, your asylum.
You don’t have to know the remedy; you don’t even need to know the ill.
He said: “The Spirit helps us in our weakness. We do not know what we ought to pray for, but the Spirit Himself intercedes for us through wordless groans.”
If all you can do is groan and cry, that’s okay. He keeps you near to His heart so that your smallest whisper is close to His ear. Tell Him everything, big and little. And wait to see what He will do when the fever breaks.
I’m sure it’ll be worth waiting for.
Love Every Always.