No more despair.
The words linger like smoke in my lungs and I cough them out. How could I have known, without traversing the trenches of the battlefield, that hope comes, not like sunlight but like dirty hands, scraped up knees, battered ribs? Hope hurts.
Despair doesn't hurt. It doesn't feel like anything at all, just another empty room that is comfortable enough to die in. It is hollow and barren and cold and I do not want it. No more despair.
Such a battle mantra, said on the edge of the unknown. I wish that I could promise you that the worst was behind us, that we weren't headed into the fray that promises blood and bruises, wounds deeper than you have yet experienced. I cannot promise the easy road to the fields of lush green, but I can promise you that the view from the top of the rugged mountain is breathtaking. Broken things are more beautiful than you could ever imagine when they have been pieced together by the One who is making all things new.
I promise you that all of this? It's far from pointless. The pain threading its way through your body and crippling your attempts at waking up in the morning, this deficiency in your mind that feels like a prison to block out beautiful things, these wounds from friends who don't know what they're doing, these sobs that pulse through your bones when you try to worship--it's not meaningless. Instead it works in you, it breaks you but in its healing it makes you stronger, it callouses your hands and feet yet keeps your soul tender--it is working in you a far more exceeding and eternal weight of glory.
Take up hope, weary pilgrim. Let it grow roots into your tenderness, pushing down so hard that it feels like you are dying. Let it plunge deeper still until it upturns your fears for you to face. Cling on still harder when it disappoints you, when you are left pacing the empty sanctuary, wrestling with the One who would save you. Do not let go.
For this is the hope of glory--Christ in you. Oh my soul, it has always been enough.
what does the little seed cry out when you bury it in the dirt?
ReplyDeletethis is not pointless, i murmur (or is that what He murmurs to me?), it is the only way you'll grow.
so under we go, and it is cold and cramped and dark. it feels as though this Death is reaching into the deepest part of my soul and breaking it apart. to die is to truly live?
the trees know, and the dandelions know even more. for after they have been put in their grave, they rise to roaring lions until they fade to a million wishes, dying again. but that pain was never pointless.
life is birthed out of death.
it is His victory written into the tiniest parts of the world, proving that He keeps His promises. even wounds do not stay as they are, they fight and ache and...heal.
(and we both know that sometimes the healing does not come upon this earth, but onward into Eternity.)
no more despair. hope is the anchor for my soul, and i'll grasp it - Him! - with both hands. x
*snapping* Mmm, so good and so true.
DeleteDon't lose heart, for though our bodies are wasting away, our souls are not, they're being remade day by day.
Wow, this is so beautiful, so beautiful. I don't know what else to say, except this spoke to me so much, and I wish every aching soul could read it. Thanks so much. xx
ReplyDeleteThank you so much, Jessica. ❤️ You are so kind. It is such a joy to see the Lord use my words. Keep your chin up!
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