Day 67 | Gabriele Hickman
Isabella cried out with grief. None but Jesus heard her.
That didn’t keep her from praying.
“Let others say what they will of the efficacy of prayer. I believe in it, and I shall pray.”
That didn’t keep her from speaking.
“I want to say a few words about this matter.”
That didn’t keep her from going.
“I will shake every place I go to.”
Well, ain’t she a woman.
She left her house of slavery and bondage, not keeping “nothin’ of Egypt” on her. She attributes the Holy Spirit to the power and confidence inside of her to not run away from her master, but to “walk away by daylight.”
And so she went to the Lord and asked for a new name.
Sojourner, because she had places to go.
Sojourner Truth went to those places, speaking against the injustice of slavery and championing women’s rights. She did this because Jesus heard her, and she heard him when he told her to go.
The start of Psalm 119 screams sojourner. In these texts, we stand, we chase, we learn, we find, we celebrate, we live, we take the path of faith.
I am a sojourner in the world;
do not keep Your commands hidden from me.
My past Psalm reflections have been inward in nature, but I think there comes a time when our souls sync with our skin. I wonder what it would look life if we asked the Holy Spirit what was keeping us from being more active in our journey.
As a nod to Psalm 119 being an acrostic poem, I asked, and wrote a poem on the answer I received.
Still, only enough for me to tire of the dishwasher’s moan, turn the music up and sashay, dance, sing to and all that we can do with this emotion.
Only enough for me to buy a dress. For me to spray the lavender perfume. For me to make breakfast and keep the windows unshaded.
Jealousy has won over parts of me, but parts of me only.
Only the parts of me that fall asleep when I pray. The parts of me that speak of good things. The parts of me that connect and high five and celebrate someone else at the Cheesecake Factory.
Uninterested is jealousy in the sinister parts of me. The selfish, rambunctious, petty parts of me.
Really all that’s left then, are the scraps of a woman you’ve chosen. The crumbs of what’s leftover after spite’s meal.
Next and now are all the same to a woman whose plans are pressing; these plans have won over parts of me. They are parts of me only.
Entertain the whole of me, as I the whole of you. Ever enough for me to let go. For me to commune at your table.
Redemption has won over all of me.