Barren but full…

The sun was slipping away, tucking himself below the horizon for the night.

Peachy wisps of clouds like ribbons circled round.

Cotton candy puffs, like those sweet at the fair, hailed him farewell.

And dark branches barren yawned weary against evening’s curtain closing.

Lonely limbs.

Empty arms, having dropped the fullness of their leaves.

But still reaching upwards, ever towards the sun, offering gratitude.

And the last rays of day cast a warm embrace and a certain beauty across their boughs.

And my breath caught in my chest.

With the weight of their fullness.

A fullness I sometimes lack when night falls. When I can’t seem to find the blessing.

Yet I want that fullness all the time, whether the sun is rising or setting.

Whether the season is lush with growth and fruits hanging heavy for harvest,

Or with nothing in the dead of winter.

When a white blanket wraps up the world all chill, cold and gray.

Pale wafer above offering little.

Source of heat that warms our hearts, light that illumines our darkness, seems thin and far away.

And we long for it’s return.

Have our hearts towards our First Love grown cold, too?

So cold that when bitter winds whip us, and our hearts freeze over, we think winter is forever and Christmas never comes?

No! May it never be.

For He is God.

And He is good. All the time.

And on the throne in summer and in winter, no matter the season of our heart.

His heart burning bright and hot for us.

Each of us.

Whether or not we feel His warmth.

Feel His love.

And His grace will take our barrenness, our emptiness, our dark night of the soul all lonely and cold, and bring the morning.

With mercies new.

Warming us up.

Charging us with strength.

And we can greet the dawn with hope and thanksgiving, even when we shiver where we stand, and it seems our hearts will never thaw.

They will.

They will change like winter becomes spring.

As long as our barren hearts and empty arms reach up.

And the brooks of our hearts will babble glee.

Tiny shoots of color from seeds within us waiting during winter to sprout new will poke sleepy heads through, and smile brightly at the One.

The One who created it all.

And created us. From the dirt of the ground. The good earth.

Dust to dust, if we can just keep on believing that the sun will rise again, we will see the blessings…

The Son will rise in our hearts.

And our hearts, like the first birds to fly due North, will sing.

Sweetly.

With the fullness of thanksgiving…

~sheila

 

 

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