looking through me

The temperature difference between my icy fingers and the hot mug is too much. I set it down and cup my hands over it allowing the steam to warm them.

My shoulders ease back and my arms unclench from my sides as the chill dissipates. I raise the mug to my lips and take a sip savoring the warmth from the outside in and the inside out. That’s when I realize how much energy I waste on something as simple as cold hands—numb fingers sabotage my focus and productivity.

But it’s more than my hands.

Too often I curl into my core to retain what little heat I have left. Yet the chill in my heart isn’t caused by an external weather front or an antiquated heating system. It comes from my own choices to drift from the source, to set down the truth, to walk through my days unprepared, to rely on others’ ambient heat to warm me.

A cold spell settles in my soul, and I can’t grab the cup without getting burned. So I thaw out my heart on the steam—holding it open to the song or the verse or the confession. As my soul warms up I can grab hold of red-hot truth and drink it down.