Unfolding – every detail designed.
Even the storm that bends the branch, causing it to wind and reach this way and that until time produces the twisted oak or olive tree.
Season after season, year after year – design in motion.
You are my Keeper. You are my Maker while I am in the making.
You hold the keys of my heart. You open; You wait. You hold; You release. All in wisdom with eternal good for me in Your skillful, loving Mind.
Still You understand the pain in the bending. Every little restriction on my life, coming under the care of the Husbandman, the Master Gardener. Your will “imposed” on mine.
Make me soft and yielding though the process seems long enough to toughen. Your bendable Life tenderizing my heart – again and again. Your creative glory ruling.
Don’t let me just imagine this.
Jesus, as the tears inside of me run like milky sap over the broken twig, dream eternity over me. No, more – speak. Please speak.
Don’t let me cry alone. Let tears from heaven rain and cover, even wash, this place of wounding.
Let me see the outworking in my earth-life.
There’s been so much taken, so much twisted.
Yet my life, my heart, my mind, my daily future – all lay in Your pierced hands.
Are You breaker? “A bruised reed You will not break.” Is my pain Your bruising, Your breaking? I don’t know.
If it is, I accept Your kindness. I cannot attribute the loveliness of a bent olive tree to an enemy’s skill.
You are my Maker, my Healer – even if You bruise.
Let my bruises be tattoos of belonging. Blood-ink rising to the surface, reminding me You have sealed the heart that pumps it. Blue on my paleness.
You are my kind King, my gentle Whisperer, my strong Lover forever.