Written on July 27, 2016.
Here in Oklahoma, we have a phenomenon that displays the reality of glory to glory. Our sunsets. Each one is distinctive. Exceptional and extraordinary. Each one bares the weight of eternity. I can rarely capture the hue and harmony on a canvas other than the skyskape upon which they rest (and am grateful for those who can who send me their catches and captures) and so simply allow them to call me to come.
These broken places in Heaven’s hang are those in which I can get lost and then found in the fortress of hope. Even as the wide world feels like it is breaking apart, surrounded and surrendered to glow and gleam, I am reminded that not only is there love in me, but in the person next to me, across the room from me and around the world from me.
Love encased. Love enclosed. Until broken. Not apart, but open.
Last night, clouds creviced and sky split to meet us each right where we were. Each ray a remembrance. Each beam a bond. My seeing found me fringed in freedom and met by a musing.
He has trusted us with the ability to break. From the start and from here. Hands that pull triggers and wield weapons. Trusted with the breaking. His son, Himself, upon a doorpost, providing Passover, in our hands. So certain that we would and will let broken be a discovery, not a destruction.
The breaths and breadth of each day the offering upon the altar of our hands and His hope. He believes we will display and not distort. That what is carried in the caravan of covenant will calm chaos.
Broken is the waxy seal on an alabaster jar of oil, torn as a veil, not shattered glass. The broken that allows what was undisclosed to become unrestrained. Someone said last night, “We are wild, but we are good.” It is this wildness that makes us His wonderFULL.
We are not uninhabited and unruly. Not meant to be. We are designed to be dwelling. Crafted to create.
I thought last night of all the things I have given a God. My God. And how each one, each dream, every desire was broken in His hands. Then multiplied. For my future. From my trust. For His hope.
I want what is in my hands to be broken such as that. Multiplied to the one who needs it. Even if they won’t, they can’t receive it. Truth, trust, faith, testimony. Love. Held safe in humble hands, even as the contents drip like oil. Steady until the smear. The washing. The anointing. the wait and whisper of that one’s yes. Even if my hands ache alongside my heart. For one and world. For hope and Heaven.
What is something Pappa has entrusted to your hands that He is inviting you be be the broken of and multiply?
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