I tend to ebb and flow through seasons of being completely overwhelmed by humanity, and, well, it’s a flow season. So many voices assigning destruction. So many fists tightly closed. So many babies with no hope of ever being mothered. So much loss. So many lies.
Can I be a voice that is louder? Two hands that are stretched open? A mother in spirit and in flesh? Can I chase hard enough, after hope and restoration and truth, without running right over the people in my own home? To align just one story to the gospel…it seems so little and at the same time so large. May we spread hope like a beautiful disease. Hope that can close it’s eyes and feel the wind and smell the air, that can imagine that day like it is today when every tear is wiped from every cheek and every wrong is redeemed. And we will it breathe in and we will smile and our weathered hands can drop to our sides because it’s finally over. He’s here. He has come for us.
Tomorrow I will take kids to school and run life’s errands and for moments at a time I won’t notice this. But for now it is heavy and I will linger. I will let my insides groan and I will close my eyes and feel the wind of hope and breathe in the fragrance of his coming. And like a good, good daddy He pulls me up into his lap and He listens and the same tears that are on my cheeks now fall from his eyes, and he tells me, dreams with me, about all that we can do in the waiting. He is good.