The day is delightfully dreary at our little home upon the hill. Don’t mistake me, the blue-hued days of spring, I greatly adore. But a spasmodic day, drab and dreary, delves beneath the surface of me in a unique way.
This morn came with rainy waves, gentle and generous, rich with the reminder of the offering of blooms.
The percussion and persistence of this present precipitation tickles my heart to a verse long favorited:
But the land came to her rescue – it opened its mouth and swallowed up the river which the dragon had spewed out of its mouth. Revelation 12:16
Not a flowery phrase to be sure, but one that flourishes with truths I have firsthand seen and and frequently behold. For the land has come to my rescue, over and again, openhanded, granting in ways lavish and lasting.
In this season of tamed tempo, I’ve discovered that relentless motion does not make miles matter more than moments. My tutors have been bud and bloom, as Beauty’s breath has bathed branches. Ageless trees and sprouting seeds have hurried me to hush and hallelujah.
Peeking through panes still raindrop clung, I catch petals kissing air while grafted to stems malleable enough to move, yet rooted, stayed by soil. And I dig into desperation to grow where I dwell. To be lengthened and deepened in this hallowed space and sacred span. That every bud and bloom sprung from that which is buried deep in me would be living witnesses to His help and hope.
My eyes draw down to earth soaked and swallowing for my saving. Creation’s container reminds me of my salvation. Of the many moments I’ve been marinated for His majesty. For a rain-soaked field holds the harvest of such bountiful things.
I am full of ragged splendor, frayed only by my need of speed. I do so often want things to open faster, instead of awaiting the treasure of lovely tucked inside, just as bare branches long for warming rays, that what burgeons beneath the bark can break through. Intermissions are simply stretches between glories, if we can take heart and tarry toward delight.
This stormy spring sky reckons with me. Our world is shadowed, yes, but that is reason, this is our season to invite shine, shade and stain. Beauty spreads. It is contagious, especially when brought by those who know He who bought it. He has not abandoned, but adorned creation in rescue’s robe.
The world, war weary, will move from black and white to holy hued once more. Tight buds are beckoning glorious garlands. We, newly freed petals, will be whisked upon wind’s wings, cascade like colored confetti and carpet a wedding aisle. Faithful fronds formed in spring, will blossom in acts great and small, making way for the story of summer and the fellowship of fall.
These are days, not as much to be counted as considered and culminated, so that in their wake a plush path, fragile until found, can be pressed and passed by those who have been looking elsewhere, that they might find Everything.
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