It's Friday! This is where a brave and beautiful bunch gather every week to find out what comes out when we all spend five minutes writing on the same topic and then sharing ‘em over here.
Today's prompt: ordinary.
Go
I felt it forever, all through growing-up days spent comparing myself to sisters and cousins and friends who were thinner and prettier and nicer and better than me. With my unruly hair and wire-bound teeth and no idea how to say the right thing, I was anything but beautiful. The lie twisted itself around my soul, bowing my shoulders and pulling my eyes to the ground. You are not good enough. You have nothing to offer. You are ordinary.
I didn't see Him in those long years spent shuffling through my days with head held low. I couldn't look up long enough to realize that His hands were outstretched to me, full of the promise spilling through His fingers.
You are more than enough. I will fill your emptiness until you overflow into the world around you. You are anything but ordinary. You are my child.
I hold my daughter close, reveling in her round cheeks and gummy smiles, praying that she will see Him long before I ever did, desperately hoping that she will be spared the dark years. When her little fingers wrap around mine, I get a blinding flash of how He must feel about me, utterly convinced as I am that she is the most incredible thing that I have ever made.
I call her mine, but more than anything, I want her to know that she is His and that she is anything but ordinary.
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Today's prompt: ordinary.
Go
I felt it forever, all through growing-up days spent comparing myself to sisters and cousins and friends who were thinner and prettier and nicer and better than me. With my unruly hair and wire-bound teeth and no idea how to say the right thing, I was anything but beautiful. The lie twisted itself around my soul, bowing my shoulders and pulling my eyes to the ground. You are not good enough. You have nothing to offer. You are ordinary.
I didn't see Him in those long years spent shuffling through my days with head held low. I couldn't look up long enough to realize that His hands were outstretched to me, full of the promise spilling through His fingers.
You are more than enough. I will fill your emptiness until you overflow into the world around you. You are anything but ordinary. You are my child.
I hold my daughter close, reveling in her round cheeks and gummy smiles, praying that she will see Him long before I ever did, desperately hoping that she will be spared the dark years. When her little fingers wrap around mine, I get a blinding flash of how He must feel about me, utterly convinced as I am that she is the most incredible thing that I have ever made.
I call her mine, but more than anything, I want her to know that she is His and that she is anything but ordinary.
