I went to a Jane Austen birthday tea in December, and I didn’t quite have time to finish my outerwear, so after the tea I kept plugging away.
For my entire life, I have had a prayer habit. For my entire life, I have also been afraid of God. Not the fear full of awe. The distrustful fear of a person who has been hurt.
The God I was introduced to was never satisfied with me just the way I was. I assumed if I prayed for guidance, that when God answered, it would be with a demand for change on my part. Never mind that when I’ve actually asked for and received guidance, the most clear and meaningful messages I got were those of reassurance and acceptance.
I’m tired of having to choose what to do with my limited resources. I’m spending a lot of time cleaning and fixing things, because it’s satisfying and doesn’t require me to be very creative.
A hole mended, a hinge repaired, a pile of crumbs vacuumed, does not a blog post make. I didn’t even realize I hadn’t posted for all of February until the month was over.
