What if I miss it?

What if I miss it?

The beauty of this season marred.
By loss and anxiety and things that really wound.

A young mother in the prime of life.

A loss leaving us reeling.
Barely able to cope.
Most of us.  On some level.
Wounded.
By disappointment and despair.

What if I miss it? 

The merry of Christmas.

Not showing up as expected.
The sorrow and what ifs threatening to crush.
And my own lack blowing up in my face.

Filling this space I call Christmas. 
With noise.
With political correctness.
With busy.

And then.  Something helps us remember.

Not to miss.

The humble birth in a stable. 
Holy God.
Coming gentle at Christmas.
Wooing our hearts.  Whispering love.

A night shimmering and we all shivering to remember glory coming down.

And then the coming off the tree.  Years later.
Shivers again.
Holy God.  Suffering.
And then.
Announcing grace.  With fanfare.

Answering the pain in our hearts with a love song.

So maybe this Christmas.
The tree's not up.  Cards not sent.  Maybe not feeling like it.

But still.
Doesn't have to be missed.

Because of Christmas; the manger scene.
Because of Easter; the tree.  And then.  An empty tomb.

And so everyday.
A relationship with Holy God.

Our beautiful sweet friend didn't miss it.
And though we miss her.

She.  Beholding the glory.
Of which we only get a glimpse.  Right now.

Because of.

A shimmering night when everything changed.

Until the whole picture changes

The phone rings.  This morning.
A surgeon's office calling.
After weeks of lying low; healing eluding.
This may be the answer.
Almost a relief.  This.  Almost.

Turning to my window, hungry for goodness.
Searching the vista.
And I see.

A grey November-breaking morning.
Treetops waving furiously; tall trunks reaching skyward, silhouette-like dark.
A riot of color spiraling down; leaves falling like small torpedoes.
Unleashed against shades of steel; the sky. 
The green expanse beneath covering with autumn color.
A season falling hard.

And so we all.  At times.
And some - so much harder than my own.
I know.

And yet.  For us all. 
Seasons.

Of uncertainty, pain and loss.
Tragedy even.
The being side-lined.
And the waiting.
For change.  Healing.  Relief.
Better news.

Clouds scuttling angry now.
The muted light of wild November sky.
Speaking to my heart.  This beauty fierce.
Reminding.

And downstairs.
Another view from a window.  If you were to peer inside.

The house rolled up, put away, covered.
Also waiting.  For normalcy.  Here too.
Workmen noisy tearing out.  Walls demolished.
A bin loaded full.  Overflowing even. 
With the old, the worn-out.  To be replaced.
Weeks of waiting.  In disarray.

Dishes piled high in a bathroom sink.
Picnics from my bed.

When nothing is as it should be.
When unexpected drops in to call.
When the pain won't stop.
And walls come crashing down.

When winds blow hard and leaves fall.
And seasons change.

There is beauty still.

And I have watched.  From a window.
The changing.  Summer warm to fall.
Framed each day within the panes of glass.
Like a silent movie of old; each frame slightly different.
Until the whole picture changes.
Into something new.

And though I expect it.  In the seasons.
And love this ever changing vista.
I am always surprised. 

Preferring instead a modern movie; my life.
Frames changing faster.  Prettier.  Happier.
Glamorous and exciting.
Resolution within two hours.
A good ending.

But, really.  I know better.
Life is hard.
And I continue to be surprised.
When the everyday, ordinary isn't good enough.

But what if it were.  Good enough?

If walls had to come down
and lives had to slow 
and seasons had to change.
To bring the new.
To redeem.

A bird soars high overhead.  Above the treetops.
Reminding.

Unexpected goodness too.
In every season.

This beauty fierce.

While we wait.  While we struggle.
Until the whole picture changes into something new.

God redeeming.

In the beautiful ordinary everyday.

This. Exploding.

Running down the narrow street.
Anxious to see better.  The view.
A vista unveiling; grandeur unedited.
Never failing to impress.
This.

Just an autumn Saturday; unexpected and mesmerizing.
The telling of glory.

Worth the hunt.  Worth the chase.
Nature exploding. 
For all to see.

In the midst of ordinary.  Every day. 
Homes built to see it. 
Tables set before it.
Windows thrown open wide to it. 
Weddings planned around it.  Vacations too.

This glory.
This telling of the heavens.
Thrilling us.
Stirring the soul.

The reasons artists paint and architects draw and photographers snap.
Lovers linger and climbers climb and people take delight.  In the beauty.

A rainbow arcing high.
Waves crashing wild on sand.
Galaxies strewn across inky black.

A window. To something greater.
Than ourselves.
The going public of infinite God. 

And the heavens are telling.

Our hearts made for this.   
Because, on some level, us all; chasing.
That which fills us to the brim.

Taking our conflicted, emotional, soul-searching lives.
And filling us.
The goodness.  Pointing.
As good as this is.  There is more.
And I run.  With my camera.  Snapping glimpses of God.

 

Because.
Life is hard. Sometimes stories harsh. 
But into this realness, the broken of life.  God has spoken.
Nature pointing. 

No fuller or more final expression of God.
Than Jesus.

Deep calling to deep.
The roar of the waterfalls.
The waves and breakers sweeping over me.

And God.  Is there.

Unfathomable love painting the skies.
Raising the sun.
Sustaining the universe.

And my heart running each day.
Breathless for this love story.

The angels know.  Creation knows.
Beauty only pointing.
To the author.
And sustainer and redeemer. 
Of this world.

Holy, holy, holy is the Lord Almighty;
the whole earth is full of his glory.

My camera points. 
And my heart responds.
Beauty exploding.