Of course, much of what this week or so has been like has been an attack. There's lots I haven't yet written about; just haven't had it in me. Maybe later. But my weaknesses and insecurities have been too specifically, strategically hit for me to look past the probabilty of attack. It's too precise. Knowing that helps, but has limited value if I'm still not trusting Him to be my strength and shield, my ever-present help in trouble. It just makes me fatalistic: I see, but embrace futility instead of hope.
Writing like this helps, a lot. Wakes me up somehow, helps hope reenter the picture. Writing isn't a magic bullet, though. Maybe it's my way of responding to the Spirit's nudge, of listening and working through His activity in my soul. Whatever the case, I don't take any credit for it; it's just something that happens and for which I'm grateful.
Fresh Chex mix. Weird the completely inconsequential things I spend time with then I'm overwhelmed. Still yummy.