The word "forge" is an accompaniment of letters that pulses my muscles. It's place in my voacbulary leans me holy on possible and full faced in the hands of our Father. Hidden by images I am not yet to see for me. For this time. For this place where steps beat hearts and mistakes drive demons away on occasions quite too numerous to even bring into reality's light.
To forge means to make or shape an object using heat and force. It's pulling something from the unknown deeply buried on the inside of not just yet. It's ambiguity in process-to-form is where vulnerability dances scattered and frequent through our souls.
The idea of force and heat is scary. These breadwinners expect results; they personalize you as their very property even. Pressing on tender. Singeing fibers of heart and melting away a confidence that stood inside like tiny grass whispers green and virtuous. Their blades, though tiny, have the power to slice. And to burn down into ashes just the same.
It's in this revelry of being made that I remind myself of God's beautiful might. With raw wounds and inside my burned, barren places, I do my best to focus on His alterations of my very landscape. Yet my sinfulness and one dimension flecks of self have me quick grabbing onto feelings heavy like failure and fear. Clawing at blame. Climb-crumbling inside my own sinkhole to cast a soulful energy towards my very own molds I had planned.
Force and heat is scary.
And freeing. For it is my broken that leans me holy on possible and full faced in the hands of our Father. He forges me to my finest hours. His freedom rings. His force is necessary and his heat precious to my making. And as much as I plan and work, its vanity is all that the eye can see and the ground can grow. Like tiny grass whispers green and virtuous, I am most thankful to let freedom ring.