Cling

When I went to the sea, I saw those golden anemones. They were so like me, little ivory tentacles that wave freely when the water washes through. Soft. Inviting. Tingly.

I cannot forget that they clung to the rocks, the sharp, dangerous rocks. And, in this clinging, they found anchor. I feel like the golden anemones... needing anchor in You.

Cling to the Rock, my instinct tells me.

I cling, Dearheart, I do. But it is not the sweet solace of sunbaked creek stones I've known before. No. This clinging makes me mold my softness to Your sharp edges. I must push out all the air bubbles, press fully up against You, kiss my wounds to your salt-slicked surface.

Cling to the Rock and live.