"You're Beautiful."


Sometimes in the work I do, it can be easy to use all of the solitude time of my mornings honing in on what Jesus has to say through me. I get my coffee, settle in at my desk, and pull out the Scriptures or a book of spiritual reading, opening my heart to where the Spirit is leading me to touch and speak that day in the space where he uses me to do so. 

It can be easy to turn my focus and tune my ears to what Jesus wants to say through me to others rather than hearing what he wants to say to me -- just me.

Today I took time to hear his words for me. 

After sitting at my desk for a while this morning, I took my tumbler of coffee over to the couch and curled up in the crook of it, feeling myself settle my head against the chest of Jesus and just breathe. And listen. 

And here's what I heard him say: "You're beautiful." 

I felt myself smile. It can be so easy to gloss over words like that, you know? To shake our heads and say thank you and then move on. Next! But this morning, I didn't do that. I let myself really receive those words of my Jesus over me. "You're beautiful." 

I let them be true. 

In the exploration we're doing right now at Still Forming, we're going deep into the realities of suffering. Each day, we wade in a little further. Each day, we notice some new, small aspect of it. Each day, we are invited to consider our own suffering and how we might be invited to hold it. 

It's hard work. Holy work. I feel my knees and elbows tremble most days before the prospect of forming into words some new aspect of the truth and possibilities of suffering. I'm so aware of my inadequacy. I'm so aware of this subject's ability to conduct the energy of a live wire. 

And each day, I face my doubts. What if someone is hurt through these words? What if they feel overlooked, unseen? What if they feel their hurts and wounds are minimized in some inadvertent way? What if I miss something in this? 

And so today, Jesus tells me, "You're beautiful." 

Because when holding such a tender, sacred subject as suffering is, that truth is sometimes something I need to hear, and remember.