She is my community.
She just had a baby 6 weeks ago. It's her second one and juggling the needs of both an infant and a toddler fight against her normal calm-and-collected sensibilities, yet she grabs precious moments to connect me to her day, invite me into her feelings of chaos and home, and let me know that she misses me.
She is my community.
She blogs. She sews. She mothers 3 kids, 2 of which are twins. She is an entrepreneur. She is filled with never-ending creative ideas. She has energy to be rivaled. She tackles every project with gusto and vigor, even losing enough weight to fit into her high school prom dress. AND SHE HAS TWINS. On paper we are so different, but our spirits connect in a language hard to explain. "...I'd love to sit with you in church today..." she writes me late in the wee smas knowing that in the die-hard night owl nature that we share, I'd be awake too.
She is my community.
She shares my personality type. That one champions my love for foster care. Another pulls out and returns back to me words that clears my chaotic soul. They are a safe place for this aspiring artist to breathe.
This is community.
It is not perfect. There is no physical gathering together every day or every week. Most do not know each other by name.
As an extrovert, I miss the parties, the gatherings, the celebrations. But as a wounded soldier, my soul has craved time to heal from the hurts and brokenness that life has wrought. I walk a tightrope of delicate balance between the two, simply hiding from the burning desire to be wanted, to be loved, to be accepted, and most of all, to be understood.
And then, when I take a second to just breathe in His grace, to ponder the healing over the last two years, I see community.
I see it in her laugh.
It jumps off the screen through her generosity.
I feel it in the genuine words wrapping my heart with their warmth.
It bleeds red and precious, like His blood, seeping into the cracks and crannies of this bruised vessel.
I breathe in grace.
I inhale mercy.
I exhale doubts and fears and insecurities and hurts lodged deep.
All because of one.
One with skin on.
One with Savior-love.
One with arms extended, walls down
Being the hands of Jesus to this weary soldier.
In the emptiness, I have found community.
And my cup runneth over.
