The Olden Days

When stumbling upon an old dwelling,  I often wonder, "Who lived here?"  

I often wax poetic about their lives.  Working hard.  Struggling to survive.  Clinging to their God and each other.  

I know.
I read too many historical fictions...

The Gospel

"God writes the Gospel 

not in the Bible alone, 

but also on trees, 

and in the flowers 

and clouds 

and stars."

 -- Martin Luther

Broken

My cup was full to brimming over.
This time, filled with uncertainties, and disappointments, and doubts.
And the one thing, though not overly remarkable in its appearance, that one thing made the cup run over.  It knocked the cup onto its side.
Where the uncertainties, disappointments, doubts, and sadness flowed out.
Coloring, no, staining everything it touched.

And, like the cup, I was broken.

Why am I not enough?
Why am I not able to do it all?
Why is this not how I think it should be?
What have I done wrong?
Why have I failed?

Heavy questions lie over me like a lead blanket, squeezing wetness from my eyes.
Uncontrollable wetness.

And, so I cry out, "I can't do this!  I am not enough!  I don't know what to do!  I am at the end of me!"

I realize:  I am broken.
Sweetly broken.
And now, wholly surrendered.

Because, I am not enough.
I cannot do this alone.
I do not, and will not, always know what to do.

Sweetly broken.
Wholly surrendered.

And when I am at the end of me,
I hear, whispered quietly,
"I AM."

It's as if a sentence has been started, but left hanging.
Empty at the end.
Or full.
Full of possibility
Full of promise.

Because when I am not, my God is.
Full of possibility
Full of promise.

I am still sweetly broken.
I am still wholly surrendered.

I am confident.
Because I have a great God.

Nature...