Skies, like lives, split open; heart slicing.  

 Rain comes down. Waters rise up. Torrents gush.

Steady Hand, unseen shield against the battering.

Held fast as surges threaten a sweep to sea.

And my heart lurches and I’m not sure if I can hold on a minute longer.

Splattered with dirt, cold and wet.

Desolate and ashamed.

My soul in the brig behind pain’s iron bars.

And teardrops gush like raindrops, flooding my soul.

Safe harbor seems a far off site…

At a college commencement last weekend, hope filled for the future, one of the speakers said:

That which hurts us, instructs us…

And a long time ago, a wiser man inspired by the Wisest, wrote:

Beloved, do not be surprised at the fiery trial when it comes upon you to test you, as though something strange were happening to you. But rejoice insofar as you share Christ’s sufferings, that you may also rejoice and be glad when his glory is revealed…But let none of you suffer as a murderer or a thief or an evildoer or as a meddler. Yet if anyone suffers as a Christian, let him not be ashamed, but let him glorify God in that name…Therefore let those who suffer according to God’s will entrust their souls to a faithful Creator while doing good.
1 Peter 4:12-19

And yet I sometimes am. Surprised.  With multiple episodes of awful pain behind me, I’d like the rest of the journey to be smooth sailing.

But that is not the way I learn best.  Learning to suffer helps me be more like Jesus.

So I take heed and attend my heart to learning as the current changes and the tide comes in, piloting me in a new direction.

With more to learn {always!} I open my heart, lessons soak in and the seas seem less daunting if I hold His hand tight.

There is safe harbor.

He guides me to shore.  And though a soaking, swirling rain storm on the open sea is frightening, rain also replenishes dry ground helping it become more fertile.

Teardrops water seeds planted deep in the dark of a heart too often broken.  Forcing germination, a season for new growth.

Pain of loss, betrayal, abandonment, or dissappointment have littered heart soil, making it difficult to sustain good crops.

He sifts through the stones, breaking up the sod, new life sprouting.

Hard clay becoming soft…

Ever near, His hand constantly upon me, working soil gently, tending new shoots carefully.

Pulling up weeds and roots of bitterness.

Soil yielding as the trowel does its task and I surrender, press in, find Him in the Gospels, listen to Him during prayer.

The moments when pain has ripped me wide, I feel His love most tender.

Discover the sweet spot. Where He meets me, holds me close.

So let my tears water the soil furrowed and full of new, good seed. Seed planted by pain. Cared for through suffering. And at harvest, producing a crop both bountiful and blessed in the way my Lord shall choose.

Rejoicing, I welcome the tiller’s Hand…

~sheila