The day is a blank slate, unwritten, with potential to be beautiful.
January temperatures have gone deep and cold. But the calendar is clear, not jumbled with wild scribbles of busy and commitment and time.
There is potential to sit. Love. Build. Refresh.
But it's not like that.
The boys are bent on damaging each other, and they're going straight for the heart. Words cut deep, hurled hard, again and again. Sharp edges. Tough punches.
And I'm weak and tired.
The sweet fruit of all this effort seems far. Too far to reach. Too far to see. Impossible to taste.
Today's fruit seems bitter.
And my own words and hard heart surface, too, and I'm not sure how to press them down.
I feel guilty, when life is so good. We are not sick. We are not in grief. The house is warm. Tummies are full.
But yet I need help, to be lifted, out of a pit we've carved, made with deep, slippery walls.
David's words comfort me, given this morning, before the day was born. I didn't know how I'd need the hope. I didn't know how I'd need the grace. I didn't know how I'd need His promise.
I waited patiently for the LORD, he turned to me and heard my cry.
He lifted me out of the slimy pit,
out of the mud and mire,
he set my feet on a rock
and gave me a place to stand.
So I'm waiting, Lord, for that gentle lift, to a sure-footed place, out of muck and mire. I'm waiting, Lord, for a standing place, where there is peace,and love, and the taste of sweet fruit is not so far...