There are women who hold my heart.

Because they hold it tenderly.

They hold it like a treasure. They hold it with lots of trust wrapped up like so much fine, pink tissue paper.

Today we are all telling our stories about what it feels like to trust a friend. And not trust a friend. It’s a project I’ve been working on for nearly a year now.

You’re invited. Just as you are. It’s a free webcast showing four different times today. Come just as you are and be encouraged.

So let’s spend our five minutes of writing today, sharing about friendship. Fight it, love it, hate it, hurt or healed by it, we were certainly built for it.

Set a timer and just write. Don’t worry about making it just right or not.

Go all in with your words.

Are you ready?

1. Write for 5 minutes flat – no editing, no over thinking, no backtracking
2. Link back here and invite others to join in.
3. Please visit the person who linked up before you & encourage them in their comments.

OK, are you ready? Give me your best five minutes on:

::

Friend…

:

Jessica, Erin, and Vickie
GO:

There is a macktruck size hole in my heart.

I tell this to God undercover of the worship. As I squeeze my eyelids tight together, determined not to let any stray drops fall. I’m 38 and I still have a mommy-sized hole in my heart. When will it be filled, I ask Him? Because who can fill you like a mom can? Who else on earth has the sole job of loving you first. Of coming when you hurt? Of pouring into you? Of being interested in the ins and outs of your everyday life?

Who else cares that your daughter has figured out how to use the “to be” verb correctly.

Who else cares that your kitchen has fruit flies and you can’t figure out how to kill them? Who else wants to know the blow by blow of how you finally figured out how to get just the right amount of curl into your hair.

Who else has the job of calling of caring of keeping track of dates and memories and who else holds your beginning in their hands?

How is it possible to hurt this bad for something I haven’t had for so long?

This woman who gave me her name and her heart and her flair for the dramatic? How is it possible to miss her so bad I can hardly breathe in a small chapel in Nebraska?

Maybe it’s having a daughter, coming for a daughter, loving a daughter, wiping the damp hair off a daughter’s forehead that has me missing being her daughter so much.

I feel this hole and then I feel a hand on my back.

A soft hand. A tender hand. And I squeeze my eyelids tighter. It’s hard to breathe. Because afterwards I know she will tell me something. And she does. She tells me that while I’m not crying over macksized truck holes, He’s whispering to her, “tell her the words, ‘filled up and running over.'”

And then my eyes are and my heart is and all I can do is nod and rest my head on her shoulder.

Friend.

STOP

Photos with thanks to Laura and Erin and the Walk Agape girls who make photos better just by being in them.

{Subscribers, you can just click here to come over and play along}



 

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