The Altar

Today is an anniversary for me. It's my seven-years-of-life mark.

I try to remember to celebrate life on February 8th. I try to remember to look back on the life I've led since that day with honesty and reflection.

February 8th is my altar. I pass this way every year and take time to stop and remember that God holds my life in his hands. In my darkest, most sin-encrusted moment, he stooped down to lift me up. He entered my world of blackest night. He soothed away the pain and self-destructive anguish to lead me into blinding light.

Jesus is my rescuer. Jesus is the only one who sat with me during that long, tortured day. He is the only one who heard the wailing of my heart. He knows every thought, every wound, and every broken moment that led me there.

And he is merciful enough to whisper hope to a dead heart.

It seems significant to me that I am in the middle of a week of intentional communion.

Since communion is really about a life lived in the center of God's unforsaking love.

It's about knowing him. It's about being known.

For the last seven years I have been leaving new stones on this old altar. I've been reliving the sorrow and the joy of that day.

I hope I never forget. I hope February 8th never passes me by without me stilling my heart and remembering, with deep reverence, the King who saved me.

The King who is holy.

God's love makes me holy and whole.

His words evoke my beauty. Everything he says and does is designed to bring the best out of me. He dresses me in radiant white.

And Jesus loves me, this I know...