I'm standing in the frigid cold waiting for a son. He's fumbling for the key to the side porch door. It's dark. The wind strikes hard. I wait for my boy to find and jab the key, and it's then that I notice the moon.
It hangs, a silver sliver, in the night sky.
It's a crescent. Hollowed down. Scooped out. Shaved thin. What I can see is just a low rim.
We'd seen the full moon weeks before. But now the lit part is smaller. It's waned. It appears to be emptied out. Carved away. But after what looks like a disappearing, there will be a filling. A sliver will show again. And as we stand below, witnessing the waxing, it will seem like a rebirth. A restoration. A filling back up.
I stand there and wait and watch and understand that this is how I want my heart to be.
Carve it down, Lord. Skim away the parts that don't bring you glory. Hollow my deep places, the places only you see, the places where sin crouches. Bring me to a rim. Then build me back up. Fill me with Your Spirit. Less of me and more of You.
My son pokes the key to the lock and then he steps aside. I move away from the cold. And as I step inside, warmth of the porch is a welcome thing.
But not as welcome as the filling of my heart.
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