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Jesus at the Piano

Sometimes, I can’t fall asleep at night. When I pray for rest, but all my body feels is tight from the strain of not meeting exhausting expectations. Memories of times when I should have lived differently wrap around my gut. Slowly, methodically. The cord digs into my body. Cutting, creating open wounds.

​It was late one night when I couldn’t take the torment of self-analyzation any longer. Stumbling downstairs, I found the house dark and quiet. I wandered to the piano and sat at the bench. My fingers blundered across the keys in distantly familiar chords as I heaved out every breath, wanting to feel free.

I was worn out with this weight from guilt over my imperfections. My heart ached with the longing to be held. And I whispered a song to the kind prophet who walked in our dust two-thousand years ago. Closing my eyes, I saw Him. Soft brown eyes blazed with tender compassion. And his hands were open.

Unpinning memories from my heart, I let them flutter in the air, paper-thin. I gathered them in my fragile hands and held them out. This was it. A broken melody of surrender. Coming to my end and releasing it all. I could feel my worries disappear. My heart felt free, unwound, unweighted. I could breathe again.

I’m learning to talk to this Jesus. This person who I can touch and speak with person-to-person. He will sit next to me and hold my hand. He will cup my face in his hand and catch my tears. He will listen to me puke up my heart and will hold me tighter still. And I can turn and gaze into His eyes and sing this song over again to cling to the radical grace He offers.

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