It’s been one of those days. One of those two cups of coffee and a long shower and no noise kind of days.
Last night, I feel asleep on the living room floor watching the Tour de France race through the mountains. Though my bedroom is right upstairs, I couldn’t bring myself to get off the ground and walk fifteen seconds and crawl into bed. It’s like I had melted into the earth beneath. So, I slept on the floor. All night long.
It’s not the first time I’ve had unconventional sleeping arrangements. My beds across the world have looked like a pile of blankets for a bit of padding, a one inch pad on roughly finished concrete and dirt, an air mattress, a couch, a rooftop. Last night’s snooze shouldn’t have been a surprise for my body.
But today was rough. The first words from my father when he saw me were, “Wow. You look like you’ve been hit by a truck.” And I sure as heck felt like it. My hair was a mess, yesterday’s make up was running down my face, and my neck and head were throbbing to the ticking beat of a bomb getting ready to explode. I remember waking up multiple times throughout the night to flip, turn, sleep on one, two, or no pillows. I was a mess. In hopes it would take the pain away, I barely remember guzzling my coffee. Praying it would relieve some tension, I took an extra long shower.
I decided I needed to get out of the house and drove to my local coffee shop. With my purse, books, and favorite zip up hoodie wrapped around me, I curled into the leather chair, popped in my headphones, and savored the fresh brew.
I read some, talked to a few people that wandered by my seat, yet I still felt nauseous from the pressure traveling up my neck and around my head. This is stupid, I thought to myself. I don’t have time for this. And how embarrassing, since I technically chose to sleep on the floor.
I changed my music to sweet Steffany Gretzinger and dear Kim Walker-Smith, and decided to create something new by surrounding key words and coloring the page of an old book. Cracking open to a random page in a book printed in 1922, I went after it. And, oh how sweet my morning became.
Prince. It’s all about royalty.
Cold ashes of the fire. How my body and soul felt.
Full-grown king lion. The One who walks among us.
Our confidence. Remains in the Roar.
To my surprise, as I drew and worshipped, the tension left and the nausea fled and my pain was relieved. Which really is no surprise at all. I was sweetly reminded of how our Father hates when we’re in pain, whether we choose it or not, and how precious His healing touch is when we approach His throne in worship and confidence.
Let us all join together in worship and urge the Father to gently heal our hearts. The King Lion is calling; will you respond?