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{ WE BURY DREAMS }

It feels extravagant.

A little silly.

I sit down with a plate of eggs, feta, chives. I fill a mason jar with exactly 8 oz. of cold milk. And I sit. I open a window, light a candle, and I sit.

My feet buzz with the history of busy. With the pressure of me on them all day, roaming the house, what could be done, should be done... what I'm too tired, too stressed, too hassled by kiddos to do. My feet pound the paneled floors, the carpeted steps. They think about hitting the treadmill.

The heels cup and burn with the relief of being done. For now.

This morning my alarm went off unexpectedly at 5:30 a.m. I have it preset just in case I think I'm going to get up and have some pocket of quiet before kids and school and diapers and all the all hits. And then before bed, sometimes the middle of the night, I go, "Nah." and turn it off. Tell Jesus that if He wants to meet with me, He can wake me up.

Pretty sure I turned the alarm off.

My husband nudged me this morning as it was going off. Unconscious as I was.

I smiled.

Okay. I told You I'd get up. I'm up.

I pad to the kitchen. Turn on the coffee. Pull closed the door to the boys' room, so they can sleep a little longer before the demands of the day get to them, too. The rain smacks the windows, lightening triggers bursts and rumbling of the earth. I think it's nice. A rainy day, that sounds nice. Grace and coffee and nowhere to be.

A dandelion on my window sill, hangs precariously on the lip of my husband's grandma's sea blue pint jar. I take in the contrast of the bright yellow, tugged from the earth by my four year old and ran to the back door for me only yesterday. The storm rages beyond the glass. The dandelion hangs on.

Gosh. Isn't that just hope? Isn't that just hope and wishes and this busted life?

I read it not even an hour later in a devotional to my 7 year old as he munches on his breakfast. It starts out in bold, "Hope". I smile. We may say that we hope this or that will happen, or that the check will come in the mail or the test results will be positive or maybe that they'll be negative - we hope it'll all work out. Hope it'll happen, somehow. But hope per the Bible? Hope means that ABSOLUTELY SURELY something is going to happen. Our hope hinges on faith.

Faith that God will make all things new. That He works all things for our good. That the best things, our greatest treasures, can never be taken from us. He is, the "God of hope" (Romans 15:13). Not the God of wishes and twisted fingers, hoping for the best. The God of certainty. The God of promise. The God that gives such a hope to us, in the CERTAINTY that THIS hope will, "...fill you with all joy and peace as you trust Him..."

Hope... not that it'll go my way... but hope that I will trust Him? Trust Him in the storm, in the thunder, in the crushing? Hope in Him, certain that He sees myself, much like the dandelion, straining to hang on, to not slip completely under and away. And why? For what? I have a God Who is hope and a God Who is sure and I'm supposed to hope so that I can trust Him more? That I can have joy and peace - in all the times, all the in between spaces - and then what?

"...so that you may overflow with hope."

Overflow. With Hope. Overflow with trust in WHO HE IS.

How would that change my days? My storms?

The sun presses its way through. The two littles and me, we leave the Post Office and there's the sun. Hoping high and burning off the morning rain. I step in an iridescent puddle as I lean in to strap the baby in his seat. We take our time getting to preschool. Drive over the covered bridge. Drive down familiar roads. Stop and take a picture of the morning sky. Think about His pouring out for us... think of the blood and the wine and the storms and the rain. Of the pounding gales in the sea, the feet on the surface of the water, reaching through... to us.

I came across it Sunday... an artistic rendering of Jesus on the water, reaching through the rippling pool, reaching down to pull up. To restore. Just trust. Hope that He will save, hope that doesn't disappoint, hope that doesn't leave us strangled and knuckling the edge of a ledge, terrified we're going under. Hope that we will rise is trust that He will not fail. When has His arm ever been too short? What has He never been able to reach, if it was in His mind to do so?

This kind of hope. This kind of hope has the power to change it all.

Because trust in the love of Jesus... changes everything.

His love... now, that's something extravagant.


"... 'Safe?', said Mr. Beaver.
'Don't you hear what Mrs. Beaver tells you?
Who said a n y t h i n g about safe?
'Course he isn't safe.
But he is good."
~ C.S. Lewis

















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