It’s raining. Again. Haven’t we had enough already? The lake swells over flood stage, the beaches are waterlogged, the causeway cordoned with barrels and tape. Enough rain.
But He sends rain and we submit because His hand is good and He is good.
The sky, grey and cold, pours anon. It is the rain of mamas that weep for broken, wayward children. We were all like this once–broken and wayward, dark flowing in our veins, and He healed. He gave light and life. And we plead that He will heal again.
The rain is the liquid emotion of a family who hears a thrice given diagnosis. It is the bittersweet of a man who has laid his father in the earth knowing well that Dad is laughing on glory’s side.
We weep with those who weep. We pour out our hearts like water before the Lord. Salt tears preserve our souls as we remember how He loved and wept. We pry open our tightened fists and we lift our hands in sweet surrender to the God of heaven.
Still, our hearts take turns with feelings–at times we are anchored deep, at others we sense only a thin thread of faith tethered to His heart. But always we know beyond certainty that all other hopes will fail but this–Christ in us, the hope of glory (Colossians 1:27).
Cirrus dyed pink stretches across the evening sky. His hand is good.