A few years ago I publicly talked about the depression battle my hot-surfer husband was facing. It was the first time we had agreed to share those struggles in hopes it may help someone. When the interview podcast was over, I did that introvert thing where you mentally play back all the words you said and regret saying almost all of them. My playback was turning into a loud, uncomfortable record scratch.
A few months ago I attended a meeting with leaders in our community.
One person spoke up, passionately communicating a painful situation that needed justice. Through tears, this person closed their plea with a quiet shrug and a whisper “…. but that’s just my opinion, so do what you want.”
My fist found it’s way to the table with a loud thud.
You haven’t truly lived until you’ve pleaded for God to do the miraculous over a dying man’s life.
A few weeks ago I got a frantic text, inviting me to lead an invocation that I was originally supposed to lead in July.
Hospice told this man’s daughter that it may be his last drive as the cancer was extremely aggressive.