Lost and Found by Ginny L. Yttrup Page B

the idea of spiritual direction. As I told him, I'm intrigued. Our meeting energized me.
    But now that I'm here, I feel the familiar sense of fatigue slipping in.
    I place the pen on the desk and turn my attention back to my laptop. I open my browser and sign in to my blog host site. I open the blog and click to begin a new entry. I think back to last night and the anger I felt with Brigitte and the way I reacted when she ignored what I'd said and refilled my glass. As I recall the anger and then the fear that followed, my fingers fly across the keyboard.
    Here, on my blog, I can drop the veil of pretense, a veil that distorts even my own vision, and explore what I feel and wait for, hope for: illumination.
    I read back over the words I spewed on the page and then I edit. I cut any reference that links the blog to me. I remove Brigitte's name. Omit the sentence about the PICC line inserted today. What instigated the infection. The readers know the generalities and the heart of an anonymous life. In this way, I remain free to explore—to open my life not only to God, but also to the cloud of witnesses.
    Weary
    This afternoon, I am weary. The infection continues to wage a war within my system. It marches through my bloodstream, taking healthy cells hostage. But, I must remind myself, I am the one who invited the troops in. The battle is a consequence of my actions.
    I am battle weary. But today it's more than physical exhaustion that I experience. Today, my soul is exhausted. Tired of the battle in my body, but also in my home. Tired of not getting it right. Tired of falling short.
    I lose things, often, but I don't lose my temper. Is it the war still raging in my body? Or the war raging in my soul? A torrent of anger I can no longer quell? Will I ever be free of either? I've become weak. I'm losing my self-control. Was my anger justified or had she misunderstood?
    Yet, I know better, don't I? She didn't misunderstand. Her act was deliberate. A judgment? Perhaps. But there is knowing in my spirit. Though I discern her intent, I know not what to do with the discernment.
    Illuminate me . . .
    Lord, I long to be an instrument of Your love and peace. But I'm operating on my own strength. And today, my strength wanes.
    "My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness." (2 Cor. 12:9)
    Before I click publish , I stand, stretch, and walk to the window. As I look out across rooftops to the glittering bay, I submit my concerns to Him. Do I write to glorify myself? To draw attention or seek sympathy? Or, is there value in the words I send into cyberspace. Are they of You? I'm never sure.
    I bow my head and wait. Will I hear His still, small voice? After several minutes of silence, I whisper my prayer. "Oh Lord, fill me with more of You and less of me."
    "Who, may I ask, are you talking to? And what is this?"
    I feel the hair stand up on the back of my neck. I turn and see Brigitte standing in front of my computer, bending to read the screen. She holds her coat over her arm and her purse on the other arm.
    "What is this?"
    I walk to the desk and reach for the mouse, but before I can click and minimize the screen, Brigitte grabs my wrist.
    "I asked you a question." The edge in her tone is sharp, cutting.
    "It's just a blog."
    "Whose blog?"
    I jerk my wrist from her grasp. I take a step back and take a deep breath. "Does it matter?" My voice shakes, but I hold her gaze.
    "Why so defensive, chérie? Hiding something?" She turns from the screen and faces me. "More spiritual gibberish, n'est-ce pa ? No wonder you're defensive." She walks toward the window, looks out, then turns back. "What is your American saying? 'You're too heavenly minded to be any earthly good'? Very apropos, I'd say. You're wasting your time, if you ask me."
    So saying, she turns and leaves—the sound of her steps lost in the plush carpet.
    "I didn't ask you."
    I sit back down in front of the computer and look at the screen. My insides