Sunday, February 23, 2014
God keeps giving me this vision of a child's hands crocheting a thick piece of burnt orange yarn. The hands loop in the wrong holes, pull too tight, leave certain areas too loose. Then they give the worn, fraying square over to the abyss. I assume this "something else," is the Lord. Because the hands just repeat; they begin again. Life is that: Beginning again. And again. And again. Until we are comfortable with this process we are never going to be able to fully celebrate the work of the Lord. It is His nature to rejuvenate and restore; to crush our sand-castles so that we might have palaces erected by His divine hands. Why do we make this so difficult? We drag our feet: Kicking and screaming; we're sure we know we're doing. We've got this. We don't have this. And frankly: Feeling like complete shit after plans fail has become exhilarating for me. The sadness in the static still morning after something broken has happened has become a lantern of hope in my life. It's never an end. It's the starting line: Full of hope, and promise, and the affirmation of God's glory and redirection. From the smoke of the rubble sprouts vision. When our cities lie desolate, and our whole life's work is a wasteland--praise God on high. Praise God on high, with our faces on the floor: He loves us enough to destroy us.
