Words hurt.
I thought I had prepared myself. I believed I was brave. But, when the words flew my direction, I stood still, dumbfounded; shocked.
I most definitely did not feel brave, or bold, or direct. Instead I stood quiet, and wounded.
And He has taken me on a journey this past two weeks. I've sat silent and replayed the episode over and over through my brain. I've contemplated the conversation from every single angle I can envision. I've imagined myself in the other's shoes.
I once sat across from a tearful adoptive momma who admitted she was the chauffeur mom struggling to get her precious ones to all their extracurricular activities. Only she wasn't driving to and from soccer practice, music lessons, or birthday parties. All her free hours were spent traveling to and from different sorts of therapies, and struggling to incorporate newly learned skills into her children's lives.
And I glanced into her tear-filled eyes, bit down on my lip, and wiped each spilling drop from my cheek.
My "normal" is not the norm. My family's extracurricular activities are not always extra fun, or optional.
And there will be others who do not understand, and will judge.
I confessed my pain to the Warrior Daddy. I confessed how I had prayed to be bold, to always take a stand for my precious ones' protection.
He directed me right to Mark 15:3-5. How Jesus stood bold as accusations flew His way, "but He answered nothing." (Mark 15:3). Pilate, in his authority, questioned Him again, "But Jesus still answered nothing, so that Pilate marveled." (Mark 15:4-5).
Bold is silent, not noisy.
And in His silence, Pilate marveled.
May you be bold, fellow Momma, as you point your face like a flint to the One, the only One whose judgment truly matters.
And please pray for me to have the courage of silence, with the wisdom that words, my words, can wound.
