the storm rages on, but the wasteland blooms.
Yes, it’s true. I’m in the storm. Am I in the thick of it? That’s often what I fear the most. I have finally come to terms with the fact that this storm may rage on for quite some time. It rages and it growls and pounds on my door. Those days I can scarcely breathe, and my curls on my temple are sticky with tears, fallen while I’m laying on the hard ground. Hands raised high, lips trembling with utterances. Clarity comes too, quick like a whip, it flashes and I cease.
And there are days when I’m tucked in the center, the eye. Those days are colored in grays and violet, calm, quiet. I sense the storm clouds on the horizon, but the earth is being turned, the soil readied.
There is grief: Power wheelchairs, or feeding tubes or breathing tubes, are these on the horizon? I’m doing everything I can to get her to gain weight, but somedays I feel the lightness of her and I crumble. She is so long and lean, so dependant on me for everything. The wind of grief comes like grief does, hard and fast, gutting my entire being, throwing my life into obscurity, senseless grief that is graciously numbing.
But that passes too, it has to, because God created all these things, and He says there is a time for all these things, so we must, at some point, feel all these things.
Pain will come, my friends. Unexpected things will suddenly become your reality. Things will not go as planned. This world is full of it, groaning with joy, grief, love, pain, peace.
We go through valleys, and then we go through even deeper ones, where the rocks are craggy, the light is dim and the ground is dry and cracked. And then perhaps, we go even deeper.
I’m learning how to respond in these times. How to praise my God, without faking it. I’m having to train my heart to not fear, to not think, to do things differently in the midst. I am having to pound the truth into my heart and mind. I yell at myself, back and forth, swaying my heart to believe: God is still good, this is not the end of her story, I believe against all odds, God has a plan and purpose, this too shall pass, the best is yet to come…pound, pound, pound. I claw, desperate for these words to sink in.
It is not easy. But there is victory. Let me say it again, it is not easy. It’s a battle, every moment, every day.
This storm is ripping away everything, like storms do. Some homes lay untouched, shutters intact, while others (mine…) are shredded by the tip of the tornado, nothing left unturned, no old photos, not even one left behind in some puddle.
And so, I start again. Everyday. I start over. And somedays, I start over two or three times.
But I see the beauty, and I watch and wait. He is: the restorer of Wastelands. He makes: the garbage heap into a blossoming garden. A pit, the dark earth, ripe, ready for the seeds.