When the ducky lifted her head out of the sand, the sun glared so brightly she had to blink to breathe. But in each blink, in each breath, she asked God for help to live above sand-level. To live in reality.
It took a pirate ship to help her sway above the tide. A pirate ship and a prayer.
The pirate ship looked something like this:
And the prayer went something like this:
“God, if you can’t handle reality, I don’t think much of you as God.”
[Pause for sunny day lightening blast. None occurring, ducky continued …]
“But since you are God, then you must be able to handle reality.”
That day, the ducky began the blinking and breathing process. Peek a little, blink a little, breathe a little, pray a lot.
Each day that passed, the ducky brought her realities – her soul she had brought to the cross years before – to the throne of God, and petitioned the One Who Could Handle Reality.
Before these days of blinking and breathing and praying, the ducky would pray, but the prayers would be more in the form of what she had been taught would move the hand of God, as she presented “scripture-based demands” receiving the “rights paid for at the cross,” for which, now, the ducky feels most small and Thumbelina-like.
Once the God of the Creation of Reality began to be worshipped as the One Who Could Handle Reality, the prayers became more simple, more real. Cries for help in many areas (not just for reading lessons) were cautiously sprinkled amongst her pleas for forgiveness, and admissions of hope for the future.
Ducky began to walk in faith. Real faith. In a real world. In a world of not only of reading and math and pirates and cowboys, but one facing challenge and fear and pain with her eyes more wide open. And ducky began to learn what faith is really about.
I was the ducky, and I’m still blinking. And breathing. And praying. And teaching.
Are you blinking and praying?