Blessed be the fruit.

“Blessed be the fruit.”

I absorbed The Handmaid’s tale when it wasn’t a show but a book that only hardcore feminists who didn’t shave under their arms read.

Well, maybe I’m exaggerating about that last part.

I wanted to be Margaret Atwood. I wanted to be a million things.

I realize now “I want” is the epidemic that’s slowly killing us all.

I want but does He?

When you reframe your perspective, you start to understand things from someone gentle, someone who loves you.

It’s easy enough to say “You hate me!!” when life starts to taste like a lemon, and you’re being redirected from your hoard of wants.

But how would I ever be a good parent if I just gave that pile of everything to my child and watched as she slowly burned and fizzled out?

Sometimes, “no” is the most loving word a person can say.

I’ve learned that. I am learning that.

No, I’m not going to be the next Margaret Atwood.

I’m going to be the first Ericka Clay.

And I won’t be blessing the fruit.

But as I look up and around, I see He’s blessed me. 

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