I'm sitting on the runway in Denver. An hour late leaving the ground. I'm. so. tired. I'm thinking ahead to school in just a few short hours; way too short. Not how I pictured coming home. Picturing is a funny business. The image in our heads is like our own little feel good mirage many times.
Recently, I waited for a man to come home from being away. We greeted him, his family of one and me. It started out fine enough. But then the stuff of life creeped in and within minutes father and son were at odds and walked off into the dark, angry and hurt and frustrated with each other; with life. They left me there in the dark on the porch. Father? Why am I here? Why did You put me here? So, I prayed and sang quietly while they each found what they needed to come back into the light. I sat under on the steps. The man sat down beside me and wept tired and sad. I sat close, not saying words. Words would have been luggage on his shoulders that he didn't need. He put his hand on mine and turned to look at me. "This wasn't what I pictured coming home." I know, I thought. Me either. I hated it for him. Eventually, I whispered for his boy to come sit between us. And he did. A silent apology. That night I'd been put there. I knew it. And I stayed. Committed.
A few weeks later? Another piece of life blew up. This time the shrapnel landed in my hair, my eyes, my skin, my heart. The boy and I exchanged words that felt hot and sharp. We found ourselves at odds and separated, frustrated and confused. Only this time? There was no hand on mine. No one waiting in the porch light. No one stayed. And I was asked to leave. For good. Not in so many words. Just....I turned around to see their backs and the space once made for me had closed up behind them; the gap quickly filled. "This wasn't what I pictured." Yeah. Tell me about it.
So, I walk into a year just inhabited a few days in, with no pictures in my head. I don't want to be left in my own canvas. I've layed down my brushes and paint. I'm letting my Creator wipe my hands off. I don't want anymore "pictures of Egypt", stories of going backwards. I don't have time for splattered paint left for me to clean up by myself. The Artist is at work and He has wasted no time in using the brightest of colors, slopped big and broad all over my head, my heart, my feet. I look closer and find a curious thing. There is a pathway painted right up to where I stand. It props my door open with a sign. "Restoration."
"This won't be what you've pictured, love," He whispers to me. I'm okay with that. :) He seems to love to surprise me.
He who began a good work in me, will carry it on to completion-Phillipians 1:6
No comments:
Post a Comment