Ponderings from the Pond – Petals of Faith

The walls were crushing. Yet, I had not realized. Nepal, riots, marriage bill wars swallowing my breath, making faith smaller than full.

Still, in a world where we harness our own; rally, buck up, and strive our way home…it can be easy to miss the pressing, unknowingly accepting the weight settling, causing us to resist, our instinct to fly.

So, like a bird caught tight in a cage easily opened, I flung wide the steel door late one evening after my beautifully colored children lay down their sweet heads.

And for once, I shed the title, “mom”, “writer”, “helper”, and even “servant” of all; labels calling me. Letting Him alone pursue me as, “daughter”.

And like a wind rushing amidst the early evening breeze, I find Him capturing me, surrounding me, walking with me to the pink blossoms I had only seen…but failed to touch.

And what is it about the experience, the touching, the pressing tight against your finger-tips that blows apart all distance perceptions and calls us into, believing?

Years ago, when we had moved in, I found this straggling, half-dead branch sticking up from the ground. It looked dead, and I was ready to cut it down, pluck it from the ground…

Because, let’s face it…nobody looks for life amongst the dead…or do they?

But then, soul cries within me. “What if…” whispers in my head.  “What if beautiful can come from this stick, and it’s just to early to see His purposes with my untrained eyes, inexperience at seeing?”

The Green surfaces below my husband’s over-sized boots, getting thicker and thicker. And for a moment I wait, hesitate, thinking, “Is it really worth it, traipsing across this field just to touch some useless pedals?”

I notice my breathes slowing, getting long, more drawn farther; while missing that bus-i-ness that usually hides me from the quiet.

And like an addict seeking chaos, I am tempted to run inside and “do” instead of “be”.

And why is it, our identity is often seen in works, our worth seems more when we can hold our palms out and reveal our efforts to a world seeking accolades and rewards?

Why is it harder just to come empty as we are?  Why is it painful even, to unlock the doors of works…and embrace the empty spaces, calling to, The One?

And like any true creature from heaven, true strength grows not from doing, but floating with the seasons, resting upon the winds that carry us…instead of running against the storm.

Healing never found in chaos.

Silence reminding us all, the Maker of Creation has us in the palm of His hand; and no winds, no walls confining, no troubles chasing us can move us from our footing.

A fluffy white tale, startles me.  Once nestled in the grass below the full pink peddles. I see her beauty, smiling to myself out in the darkening field where my feet carry me to Spring.

While simultaneously, a few feet from touching that stick now blooming beautifully.

But then, I hear someone else’s words, “Aren’t there snakes out here?”  Her echos make me want to retreat, run into the house, put on t.v. and watch the news like everybody else tonight.

But faith never retreats.  It walks forward.  Head high. Faith never listens to the lies, or gets caught up in another’s doubts….it follows it’s heart and moves on as the wind calls us out.  

No walls of others world’s can trap us into barely breathing.  Thinking we are existing. Unless we un-muffle their sound.

“Lord, help me”, I whisper under my breath…not just over the snakes that once covered the fields I now walk on. But over all that can trap us; our thinking, others hesitancy, our quickly-moving worlds….trying to steal away our joy.

My babies in bed, sleeping, turn inside my soul.  And I can just imagine them hopeful, over-comers, looking to their parents for what it means to walk on water, when a world entirely is drowning.

My steps get strong as my eyes turn to Him. It wasn’t long ago we were plowing over little black snakes with lawn mowers, and boots; declaring this dark, repossessed land, His.

I remember flying fearless in the face of everyone else’s questions, standing boldly against lies, clinging to the vision He has given for our property.

It is then I reach out.

The petals don’t look bright and boastful as they did from far away.  Instead, their reach spans long and wide, each soft representation stretching as far out as they possibly can be; north, south, east, and west.

And instead of being strong, fearless…they look tender, weak, helpless, dangling from their branch.

I grab the trunk of the tree, (I am not sure why) and shake it, remembering the once weak useless limb on the brink of death…

It does not move. It’s anchored in faith. And the unshakable trunk only makes the blossoms seem that much more weak, holding their delicate fragility ever so beautifully from the vein keeping them.

I stare for a moment, touching the petals, turning them through my hands. Seeing my reflection in the blossoms that alone are not that spectacular…

Collectively however, oh how they catch the eye, walking, perceiving, looking for beauty.

Still, left without the trunk, the promise of another Spring bloom wouldn’t be certain.

And I scold myself for thinking, what looks weak can really grow strong.

I notice now…my breathing, deep and full. My eyes scan the widening field. The pond, holding it all together.  And I find my narrow vision, my controlled thoughts, now freely roaming and dancing upon these open pasture.

And I almost laugh that I once thought that a wall-shrinking life was “normal”, or “o.k.”. I laugh that I had exchanged deep, full, flying wings for a captured cage, telling me who I should be…

My head rises as I leave the delicate petals. Leave the fluffy tale peaking at me. Noticing the clouds floating, the sun/Son drifting lower, closer….

The night about to come.

And I thank God, for a world where nothing is as it seems. Where babies are nestled tight, and God’s people wait with hope for His close returning.  Where beauty truly comes if we look and perceive it; faith flies high…

Feet following His Spirit. Blessings all around us, calling, luring us….

Will we become small enough to see, petals reaching from One Solid Vine?