Collecting Coins.

                                                                                                                          

God is good. If this is all that i know, is it enough?  Are these the words that will not only sustain me, but  give life and joy abundant?  And what of the time it takes, the time for it to sink in and become reality?  I do not understand God, not even a little. I see what I think is good, what I think is peace and right, and yet it seems so often not an option, not in His plan. What do I do with this, but again believe that He is good? He is good. He is good. He is good. I whisper this every moment that my heart and mind are bleeding. The words becoming a cloth to press against the wound. This is the hard thankfulness. the kind that I want to run from, and I would, except I know that there is no where to run that my heart will not follow. Perhaps God makes it hard to believe that I might know faith. Faith that what He says is indeed true. That my faith is in the Faithful alone.


A dear friend of mine lost her baby when she was just weeks from delivery.   I wrote her a letter and in it said this…"Why would this happen to those that have put such trust in you Lord?  And I do not know these answers. All I know is that from everything, through joy and sadness God whispers.  He tugs at us to continue believing no matter how deep the gash.  And when we believe in those moments, when our hearts are split open, bleeding all over every thing we once found valuable, deeming all else worthless, I do know this:  Cleaving to Him here seals our hearts forever to the Father.  There is no stronger bond that can be formed between you and the Lord. To trust completely, without even an ounce of understanding, and knowing there may never be an answer to why." He is good. He is good.  When mothers bury their beautiful, perfect babies, when love is lost and when all we see is the death, He is good. What do I do with the days that breathing seems the challenge?  When I think of calendars  and they bring a sense of panic, to think that I might have to continue existing inside each blank numbered square?  Whisper again, He is good. He is good.  It is the pain that binds me to Him.  His needle that sews my spirit to His is sharp and pierces through me, separating my own desires, my own dreams from myself until, in hope I pray I become knitted to Him. He is good. He is good,  a guttural moan in the night of my journey, a mantra that promises the glory of morning.  The Glory of light that blots out the darkness.  And the promise of joy immeasurable.

The path of His goodness is a dark and steep trail, and often I feel I am climbing blindly through, learning to grasp to the roots, jousting myself ever upwards with mere faith that I will climb to the top to witness the dawn. Each step is a labour but I must believe that the labour is good and the harvest will be plentiful beyond my understanding.

"No discipline seems pleasant at the time, but painful.  Later on, however, it produces a harvest of righteousness and peace for those who have been trained by it. Therefore strengthen your feeble arms and weak knees. Make level the paths for your feet so that the lame may not be disabled but rather healed."  Hebrews 12:11

I sat outside a coffee shop in the rain tonight. The hopelessness of my circumstance dampened me deeper than the cold splatter of water on my shoulders. A woman walked out from the alley, asking for money to catch the bus. I had none to give her but she thanked me regardless and walked to the next group of stragglers. From a few people she collected change until she had enough.  I watched her walk away, sinking into the darkness and harsh January rain.  And then when I thought her gone, I heard her shout from the sidewalk somewhere far in the distance. "Thank YOU Lord! You gave me what I needed. Thank you Lord."    As I stood there listening to her yell out to no one but God and the storm,  I realized I needed change too. A change of perspective, a change in my vision, that I might walk the dark wet streets, thankful that I have collected just enough for the ride to where I need to go. And though my chest still heaved with the gravity of my sorrow, I pushed out enough breath to whisper yet again…He is good. He is good. And here is faith…that each time I whisper, hands open, that He is Good instead of dwelling on why I think He might not be, I feel the weight of another coin. A tiny token of change to take me there.