The Secret Life of Pronouns: James Pennebaker
Train whistles. I love them.
Especially on cold winter nights when you can hear them for miles. They sound so far away . . . yet, they tug on my heart every time.
It seems like I hear a train whistle at just the right time. Soft, low, somewhere off in the distance calling out. I sometimes can hear the engines too. Rumbling, urging, pulling. The rest of the world may be sound asleep but I lay awake listening to that lonely call, that singular, remarkable, reverberating sound singing through the night. I smile and open my heart to it. I calm. I relax in the knowing it brings to my heart.
You see, I’ve had a belief ever since I was a young girl that God reminds me He is thinking of me when a train whistle blows. I hold to that belief even now. Suddenly, this extraordinary One is calling out “Nelda. Nelda. You are mine. I love you. You are special to me. Never forget. I see you.”
My eyes crinkle and half close. My heart warms. I feel the whistle through my very body.
I am loved and seen and worthy.
Through and through.