We all have altars.
Moments that we can look back on and point to God’s hand. Moments where the veil between this earth and his kingdom intersect. An answered prayer, a moment in worship, the exact words you needed to hear, an opened door.
And we all have deserts. Long periods of wandering and of wondering: Why? How? Who? Prolonged suffering, of too little given, too much taken away.
He’s equally real in both. He’s enmeshed in our moments, each and every one of them. The problem is sometimes our eyes are dry from tears, from lack of sleep, blurred by anger and trauma. We cannot always or do not always want to see him the way he is crashing in. And sometimes it's only a whisper.
But our lives, if we allow ourselves to look upon them, are altars. Moments which profoundly speak of who it is we are living for, of who it is that designed it all, of his glory, and these altars need to be marked. We must name and we must remember. It is our light in this darkness. It is what we hold onto, and what we revisit, when now doesn’t make sense. When the next Altar has not yet been unveiled.
These are my altars, sculpted from my seasons of suffering and of joy. These words, these pages, they are my testimony, but they are also my evidence of His love, of his faithfulness, of all the things the Bible says are true, that sometimes we hurt too much to see. He is in every moment. He doesn’t leave. These are the things he’s taught me about him so far. I hope somewhere in my story, you can begin to unravel yours too.