In those early days, when I came to the realization that the God of Sunday actually lived and breathed and beckoned for me all the other days of the week as well, and I fell into those warm arms and whispered, "Not just my Savior, but now my Lord," I reached for His love letter and began to read. I read as though the pages were bread, and I, a starving woman.
I read before I left my bed each morning--grateful that the sun had roused me from sleep (which I counted to be wasted hours) and called me back to my food. I devoured those honey-words during breakfast, when nothing on my plate tasted as good or satisfied as fully.
Thankful for red traffic lights, I read until the car behind me honked in annoyance. I read while in line at the grocery store. When I arrived at the department store where I worked as a plainclothes security officer, I rushed the steps two at a time, signed in at the back door, and hurried my key in the lock to my office door. Ensconced inside, I would often take my fifteen-minute break immediately because I couldn't bear to close the book.
Countless times, when God's love rose from the pages and wound themselves around me like a blanket of "I'm here," I'd lift the book to my face and press my cheek against His letter, and cry. His love wove through every word, and I could not believe that the Maker of clouds and babies, rippling wheat fields and laughter had thought to send me something so precious.
I remained in that ravenous state a long time--long enough to read each word and then read them over again. And then one day when the sun tapped my shoulder, I turned over and chose sleep. One day, I spent my time in the grocery store line scanning nothing but the ridiculous headlines of lying magazines. One day, when I arrived at work I signed myself in and went straight to my task.
I didn't stop eating entirely; I just stopped loving it quite so much. Now and again, I'd remember what it was to feel such intensity, such passion. Sometimes I'd feel it again.
Yesterday the hunger returned. While researching for my current work-in-progress, I looked up a well-known verse. I don't know what it was that caused me to look twice at that page, but when I did, something stole over my heart. I love this book, I thought. The scribble-embossed page was covered with markings from the many times I'd read it--touches of red on verses that spoke of the cross; touches of blue that reminded me of God's unchanging nature. Lines that drew my eyes to the margin, where I'd recorded an insight I could have received only from the Spirit who teaches me all things.
I ran my hands over the page, and it touched me back. The words felt like braille, and I, a blind woman, read, I love you.
I lifted the book to my face, pressed my cheek against His letter, and cried. And then I dined like I hadn't eaten in years.
Keep me hungry, Lord.