The Lord breathes lovingly about how dying doesn't have to be ugly. His wordless words fall ajumble on my heart, but I know He's saying I can glow in the sun (the Son) if I die to myself. He's correcting me: the cook and clean for your family, He says, is as beautiful as the play with your family. You're missing out, He says. Count it all joy.
He shows me, again, lunch with my friend: reminds me how I went to cheer her but had it all backwards. I see her fold me in her arms at the goodbye, and--right there in front of the restaurant--I hear her pray blessings over me, my baby, my ultrasound. She holds me tight until after the amen. "I love you," she says. From her car, she smiles and waves before driving away. She takes part of my burden with her; it's tucked in her mustard-colored purse.
Dying to yourself is like that, the Lord says. You expect it to hurt, but it doesn't. It doesn't hurt at all.