I don't feel like writing, at all. I want to shut my brain off, I need to do that sometimes. I'm constantly analyzing. Constantly thinking, constantly building thoughts on thoughts.
My dad called me today. In and of itself, that's a mini-miracle. What followed blew me away, and I must say my eyes watered for the first time in a while (i.e. Since a song during Church this morning, what can I Say?):
Dad: Hey Kev.
Dad: (while doing laundry): Hey I called to ask if you would pray for me.
It doesn't matter the conversation that followed. At all. I honestly didn't even care what it was he asked me to pray for him about. All that matters was that he asked. What has happened in the previous months between me and my Father is somewhat monumental. For 22 years I've never had a dad of my own. I mean, sure, he was there, but he wasn't my dad. At all. Then today he asked me to pray.
I heard about healing today. Two hours later, I experienced a minute firsthand experience. I'm not one to connect these things usually, to run on about how blessed I am, how blessed this life is, how "He is so good," "worthy is the lamb, praise Yahweh, bless Him." Not because I'm not blessed, I have the best life ever. Not because He isn't great, and afterall He's shown he IS worthy. But because I've experienced that, I've said all that, but I forgot to love. Now, I'm living. I don't say those things because I speak them, with love. I think that speaks multitudes. There's something true in that. That sings a melody I could never write on my own. I've learned more about grace by giving it, than I have ever by receiving. Perhaps St. Nicholas is real? Or maybe(hopefully) it's something greater.
There is hope. Wake up. You're alive.