This morning, I considered the idea of assurance and prayed,
“Dear Lord, I want to live assured.”
I thought how it may be to move through my day with a countenance of being sure.
How it might be to wear assurance as my jacket, to walk with the cadence of happy rhythmic step, and to speak in a way so sure I’d radiate belief, my cheeks ‘ablush from the knowledge of enough.
My countenance, sure and assured.
I looked towards the memories on my wall, the tiny angel with her book and a jelly jar full of feathers.
The beauty of it all, so much more than enough, I sit quietly in a settled place with sunsine stripes on the wall.
Yet, none of this is significant or of measurable value.
I could sell angel paintings, their shapes thick with paint and poised with grace and hope. I could hear of the way they spoke to the buyer. I could publish the book God told me is my “treasure”, the one I’ve been brave enough to title. I could do these things and more and I’d be nothing more than accomplished without the assurance of a good, true and faithful God.
I’d rather be known by my faith. I’d rather be content in such a way I’d intrigue others to know how, why and could I?
My countenance, one of sure enough assurance and my expression so true, all will understand,
She means it when she says… it’s not me, but, God and it’s grace I don’t deserve but, I’m sure of.