Writing again. Or trying to. Today's just been one of those ethereal days where I can't help repeating myself at the wonder of the poetry declared for all to see in the sky above me. The setting sun touching pinkness on the edge of glowing clouds behind silhouetted, spindly winter trees. The softness of the cool-tinged wind across my face and hands, exposed beyond my sweater. The dance of eyes filled with delight and freedom because of a voice that can sing and express its soul's yearning to praise the Maker of all.
Why should I be given so much? It isn't that I'm searching for more... or is it? Perhaps that's the key. I have been searching for more, but when I've given it up, those moments where I've followed Christ's footsteps as I ought, those are the times I am gifted richly with these things. Or perhaps those gifts are always there, laid out in the open hand of my Saviour, yet my inward, prideful focus keeps me from noticing.
There's always so much to do. I'm never bored, nor find myself at a loss for what to occupy my mind with. If anything, it's the opposite. I must choose rest sometimes, and come scrambling back to my Saviour for completeness and joy. In conversation with others I find myself handing out freely the answers I need most myself, and as the Spirit reminds me, I look inside and find a dirty fist clutching ragged treasures, and hesitantly, then haphazardly, I fling them at His feet. It is when I come to the lowest point that He raises me up to my most brilliant--not because of my own glowing form, but because of the righteousness of Christ with which He has, in His great mercy, robed me.
And as I tear at the dream of a future with hopes as yet unfulfilled, I find myself joying at the perfect peace I have in God's perfect plan. I look back with vivid memory of the dreams that then were unfulfilled, the pools I filled with saltwater drops over hopes, and the little dirty fist, opened, opened, opened, treasures tossed, tossed, tossed. Now my soul cries those tears backwards, laughing as I REJOICE over His deigning to choose this time--this short time--to fulfill that hope.
Stretched beyond belief and broken yet again, yet more whole than ever before.
The beautiful paradox of the Christian Life.