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I once again entered that place that can, when managed correctly, serve as a torture chamber: the local Y. And, once again (will I never learn?), took up weights to begin yet another grueling training session with Ka’en. It has become our routine to be there every Wednesday without fail (save for contracting a communicable disease), so mechanically I arrived, ready for whatever my bestie had in mind.

At some point this summer I had willingly entrusted most of my exercise routine to my comrade-in-arms, as left to my own devices I’m a bit of a workout weenie. I was despairingly stuck at the same weight and fitness level and needed another voice telling me to Push Harder! So began partner training some two or three months ago (long enough to ingrain the habit whether I wanted it or not). And there I was again today, allowing her to lead me to a tall, partially-enclosed box hung with all sorts of metal objects waiting to be clamped on and maneuvered. We began our partner workout: I do 10-20 reps on one exercise, she does 10-20 reps on another then we switch. Then go on to the next set of two, and so on till we are quivering blobs of post-workout mess. A good 5 or six standing chest presses in with a seemingly innocuous bar and I’m thinking, This is hard!!! What was I thinking? Did I sign up for this?!

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Immediately a huge, scrolling parchment springs into my mind. Minute handwritten paragraphs fill it; at the bottom stretches a signature line. And I’m standing, quill in hand, scribing my autograph and looking back at me sheepishly.

What is this? What does it mean? Because, often, these quick visions of sorts contain layers of meaning. And I realize the document I’m putting my name to was crafted by none other than my Heavenly Dad, who offered me life for my downward death spiral.

Looking closer I see the paragraphs represent my life’s timeline.  Ah, there’s the first signature line near the top, following a tiny paragraph. I am 4 and my crayon scribble and dancing eyes show I’ve asked Jesus into my heart. The second paragraph is longer and my printed name at 16 shows I rededicated my life to Him after sliding away for a while. The bold grown-up signature at age 19 proves I gave up my long-loved dream of getting married and having a family, a house, a nice yard… and was willing to go anywhere and do anything for Him.

The one that really catches my eye is the one written in painful strokes, the one carved into the page as I sat on my metal bed at Chester County Prison, grasping for hope, realizing if I was going to survive this – or even if I wasn’t – I would grab onto His garment hem and never let go.

As I scan to the end I look at the signature at the bottom again, the one I caught myself writing while pushing out that bar at the Y. And there is me, but wait – it is spirit me, preborn yet fully formed, having risen from the deep talk with Dad where I agreed to all of it without yet seeing any of it. I had looked up at His face and nodded when He asked, “Will you enter the timeline and be born? Will you go wherever I say, do whatever I ask of you? Will you trust me?” I had written my name tall with sweeping, joyful strokes.

I did sign up for this. I signed up to become God’s warrior here on earth. At key points in my life I agreed to trust Him, sight unseen. Pure, blind faith but with eyes that see more and more as my Creator Dad opens my eyes. And, as the inner is often represented by the outward, I give myself to training to my friend who has herself done deep, hard training.

I take a shaking breath, exhale “In Christ.” And Leoa the Lioness pushes through one more rep.