You hold her soul.
You hear the whispers that you're forgotten.
And I tell you, your name is prayed over every morning cereal, over every bedtime story.
Your pictures line my walls, and her portraits of you cover our fridge.
Sometimes, I look into her eyes, and know she is gazing right past me, to the dream of you.
And when she twirls in her gown, she does not ask her Papa if she's beautiful; she asks...
Will my Daddy think I'm beautiful?
They tell us we're so different, of what we have to offer, of what we have to bring.
They measure our accomplishments, our mistakes.
And we navigate this journey, this unnatural beast of brokenness.
We attempt to puzzle piece the shards of what once was, of what could be...to find an answer.
Dollar signs are sifted through and education calculated. Stability is fought for and what defines success can sometimes evaporate before our eyes.
The voices and demands grow louder, drowning out the hope. And you wonder if this is where your story ends; the healing fades; the hope dead-ends.
But, don't listen to their voices. Just look into her eyes.
There's success that you can give, I could never dream to.
You and I are not that different, for you see...
I once was lost, but now I'm found, was blind but now I see.
Amazing grace, how sweet the sound, that saved a wretch like me.
Come, let me take you to the Author of Hope, the One who writes our stories, the Savior who bore our Stripes so the healing of our souls can begin.
Your story is far from over. In fact, it's just beginning. Because there's One who dances over you, who is waiting to take your shame.
This uncomfortable dance we're doing; there's restoration at its center.
Because of the One who writes His name on wretches' hearts,