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Sometimes I get thrust right into the fire and start to feel like a toasted marshmallow. I protest too, “Lord, it’s getting a bit hot down here!” Than I have to play the girl card, which I do rather shamelessly too, as in all this stuff you have handed me is way over my head, I am simply not emotionally, physically, psychologically equipped to handle it. That actually works, so don’t knock it. It turns out that God actually listens for His bleating lambs to cry out to Him.  That never ceases to amaze me.

There is a cry from deep within our spirit, a cry that a mother recognizes, that cry that sends us running. It is not the same kind of cry that makes us roll our eyes, not the murmuring we often hear, not the kind of cry that makes you go, “yep, it’s all good, they’re just killing each other again.” God too can hear our cries and He knows when to come running. How amazing it is that the Creator of the universe hears our cries.

I don’t just wind up as a toasted marshmallow either. Not the kind that is patiently and slowly roasted above the coals, soft in the middle with those delicate brown markings, oh no, I am more like the marshmallow thrust right into the fire and instantly turned to charcoal. Burnt on the outside but still half-frozen on the inside. I am more like the kind of marshmallow my children used to set on fire, making charcoal sleeves that you slip off and devour before setting fire to the next layer.

The same kind of blackened marshmallow they assured me tasted far better than one carefully roasted and golden brown. I thought they were nuts, but I had to let it go, had to surrender to the fact that perhaps they really do like their marshmallows that way better, and that perhaps charcoal has some nutritional value I don’t know  of.

God’s will can be a bit like that too, and sometimes I think that perhaps He really does like His marshmallows set on fire, scorched, in which case, “Lord, just make me the best crispy little bite of charcoal I can possibly be.”

marsh

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