I went for a whirlwind trip to the city with a friend and we laughed when we planned our time around treats and food stops.  We worshipped when the music swelled and the woman with the broken story sang raw.  We stayed up late sipping personal sized boxes of wine and eating chips ahoy, licorice, habanero chips.  And we woke early, opened our Bibles and stayed in bed before climbing back into the truck, before racing around Ikea, before ratchet straps and video calling our husbands from the truck bed and before the rushed bathroom stops and that last hour that went on forever.  We stayed in bed and I opened to the Kings and I caught myself cheering when the wayward people were destroyed.  Cheering when they were led into exile.  Absolutely pumping for their punishment.  I am dangerous right now.  The grace has gone out of me.  I can't seem to muster any more praise for potential.  I can't seem to see what I used to see, to hope for what I used to pray.

I'm three months past Christmas when I first realized my love had run dry for the wanderer.  I'm three months out and still, there are not words like there were before.  I'm desperately craving space.  I am putting up boundaries like our souls depend on it and maybe they do because the words inside me would cut.  I am all harsh tones and spit and eyebrows.  I tried to talk this weekend and there was a shake in my voice, a deep rumble.  Maybe I'm spending too much time in the Old Testament.  Maybe I need to read some 1 John, let that love word roll around in my head.  

I'm doing the only thing I know to do.  I'm ugly crying short, choppy prayers.  I'm working on my heart and I'm trusting The One who loves the wanderers as much as He loves the faithful.  Because there is no hope for me if I cannot learn to stomach grace again.  There is no hope for my own wretched soul if anger and hurt beat the love out of my heart.

And if the Kings have taught me nothing else, it's this: God always redeems after He exiles.