My Lips to God's Ear

This is my bed. It is my transition bed. I slept alone and dreamed the promises of healing and a new life. I prayed and treated myself as a sacred, wounded friend for the first time in forty-plus years, and this is the bed I slept in.
This is still my bed in some cosmic and essential way although it now dwells in a good friend’s house. I still visit, and occasionally I sleep in it again. When I do, this bed is still my miracle. It gives me rest and remembrance of one small piece of many answered prayers that fell serendipitously into my lap at exactly the right moments in the midst of chaos, signaling God’s perfect timing rather than my own.
It makes me both joyful and sad to sleep in this bed, because transitions build and grow us toward greater joy even as they prune us painfully. It’s a high bed, and significantly I scaled higher realms with less oxygen and more hazardous sheer cliff faces as my search for an authentic relationship with God (and myself) ascended to new levels, again.
This time I understood that God’s perfect love allows for suffering. I no longer believed in my own luck. This large pearl on the string of life’s turning points would be created by gnawing gut fear that I may save one of my children to sacrifice the other, or maybe I would later see that I sacrificed them both. Or—the long shot—I could be saving them both. Only God knew—but for me it was a blind leap.
In this bed I fortified myself for a legal conflict I had no experience to fight, and I resigned myself to the possibility of “living under a bridge” if many things did not work together for our good. Out of control, yet more in God’s control than ever. That was me, in this bed.