I am still reading Isaiah and stopping often to savor certain lines before moving on. I considered this week what it means for God to be my arm.
My physical arm is part of me, a vital part that does so much each day.
It was written on a dumpster, of all places. Was the person who did this laughing at the irony, or in all seriousness, trying to send a message? Could there be a more appropriate spot to make just such a point than on a beat-up dumpster in a weedy corner of a parking lot in downtown Tulsa? Something in me said Yes to this proclamation of truth.
I have been contemplating the beautiful language my therapist used on Monday to describe the place between the two narratives that we tell ourselves as we come to grips with the parts of life that aren’t as they should be. She called this place “the messy middle,” and talked passionately about wanting to come alongside people to help them realize we can make a place at the table for things that won’t be made right.