Falling Into Sunshine

December's a frigid mistress this end of 09. Her chill winds around my frame like a gossamer scarf, frosted ends tucked deep into my bones.
Will it ever end? I lift frozen eyes to hills as midnight pounds on soul's door. My Help stands near, ready, arms of strength-outstretched even before I begin the fall.

Outside my window, the barren pear tree catches fire.

And I plunge into flame.






He knows. And with all-knowing precision, shafts of warmth leap from His heart to mine. Oil spills healing even before blade meets vein. And I knew. I knew, somehow, that she struggled.

Emptiness craves you. Begs for you.
Yet you were thrown into the field
while the rain falls,
and the sun still shines.
Why, why WHY this bloody irony of life-full and life-less? Of wanting and unwanting? I pray to find compassion, to gather flecks dusted from the grace-portrait He paints for me, while He-who-brings-forth-mercy-new scoops me and she with arms of love, and carries us up Golgotha.

                                                                                                                 

"Meet me outside, My love," He says. I grab my coffee and step into the wild. He knows when I'm restless and need sanctuary, when doubts arise, when stormy waves crash against my feet, my knees. While the unknown looms with frightening uncertainty, so tender, so tender is He. Be still and know. Not an order, not a rule, not a burden . . .
. . . an invitation.

October sky parts with light and spirit, brushing treetops with garnet, with life. He is here, touching, undulating, changing, healing. Be still and know. The place I stand is holy ground. I breathe, inhaling Him; His presence stills soul, calms bristled waters.

There is so much I don't know.
But He does.
So many things I can't do, places I can't reach.
But He can.
So much that I am not.
But He is.

He asks me to cup myself, an expectant vessel, ready to receive, hold, pour as He desires. Why is it in the holding that I grow weary? The keeping, the waiting, the unknowing that I become faint? Why is faith so hard? Faith that He gives, and then rewards for the having?

I think I have it all wrong. "Come to Me, all you who labor and are heavy laden," says God the Son. "I will give you rest." He knows when I try to pile on burdens, when I try to load up and listen to voices of the little gods who clamor, incessantly. 

Yet the One whose name is Jealous wraps face with hands and bids me look. Come. See. Know. In love He draws me. "What is it?" He asks. I still, like water smoothed. Serenity washes across soul, wiping away the dust and grime of life. And we talk, He and I. His wind awakens chimes, embraces skin. He sends melody-makers fluttering through treetops. And the reflective little creek below reveals a secret I so easily forget.

In returning and rest, I find salvation. In quietness and confidence, I find strength. In the cupping, the holding, and in the "peace, be still," I can see the face of God.

© 2009 Hillary McFarland