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This week the prompt is: whole.
I'm panting up the hill and my runner's high keeps my legs moving, propelling me forward. I feel my mind zigzag through this busy week, this week of standing at crossroads looking at the ones less taken and more often taken and wondering if there's ever going to be clarity for the broken halves of answers in my heart, answers for all these jagged questions that poke and prod my mind.
And as I reach the crest of the Hill I feel His spirit touch the windowpane of my heart and suddenly He's there, right there, and I'm telling him about all the things I've done this week, all the forgetting of joy and the complaining, the choosing to regret and second guess and doubt, and I'm whispering to the waving branches and the rabbit dashing into the field on my right that I forgot Him in the midst of all that broken self.
And I hold open my sweaty palms - white against the darkening sky, and I cast my eyes up in front of me where the sun is blazing its way down beneath the horizon and I feel it again, that movement, that wind in my heart that says, wait for me, Hilary and I am running home faster than I've ever run before because it's all new again, and He is here in this moment with the heavy weight of blessing and the waiting is a promise. And the waiting is a promise.
I round the corner and feel my muscles burn as rush into the house and I beam out a smile that comes from my toes upwards, because the broken selfish pieces of me I left with are miraculously made whole by His hand on my heart and His voice that holds me close as I run home.