. . . one blossom at a time.
I woke early in the dark and cold with only red numbers projected on the ceiling, confirming that yes, it is early, and yes, it is still dark 04 hundred.
I lie here awake. The pain has been my alarm, and I am so tired,
tired of tired,
tired of it. And I long for heaven.
When you are strong, heaven is an ever-after long time ahead—a warm, fuzzy promise for after I have collected all my joys
and am done with them, ready to move on. But as time wanes and the body fails,
what I have played with seems much more shallow;
what I thought would last forever is fading fast, and
my perspective is turned to what is ahead rather than what is behind
. . . or now.
And the nice ever after becomes a longing, and the firmly held hope becomes a thing…
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Shaken deeper than deep, hiding in the shadows from authorities and creeping fears—named and unnamed,
no light, no hopeful horizon even with the bending rays of first light.
But morning breaks the mourning in thunderous quiet within an unblocked tomb, in a soft step in the garden, and on dusty Jerusalem roads.
and from the inside out a cry of liquid joy flows like a stream—He’s alive.
Just as He said, but we missed it, were blind to it—to Him.
But possibility and promise have rocked the dark kingdoms, and God’s Own has broken through, leading a parade of captives.
I was one. Praise Him.