Transition… constant and ever present, its as unchanging in its many changes as the seasons, the tide or the movement of the hands on the face of a clock.
Perspective… perhaps one of the things that leads us to seeking truth. I wonder if my eye color has changed, as I just don’t see the same way I used to.
Vulnerable… it’s always been the hardest of words to acknowledge. Who likes to have hard things revealed or to reveal hard things. Who likes to see there is a need to lay aside the old way of thinking for the unknown. Being comfortable in a zone that stunts our growth and holds us back was never part of our Father’s plan. Allowing others and trusting our Father in heaven, with the very beat of our heart. Allowing others to see how raw and real it is… instead of hiding it behind fancy talk, a strong opinion that’s only a defence mechanism we have to keep from being hurt…. and functioning under false perfection of who we think we need to be so we’ll be loved and accepted.
I have been pondering these words as I stand here in the presence of a great Sculpture, a Master Artist and Divine Weaver. The unnecessary is chipped and carved away… I see things being exposed I never knew were underneath. Its painful and its life-changing. As the stone of my heart falls away and is shattered on the ground around my feet. The sharp edges are smoothed and polished… making way for the Master Artist. His heart for beauty and color reveals the true person under years of ash and rubble. A softness, brushes my cheeks… life color is breathed back into the death-like, grey features. Sunrises and sunsets run in a mass of wave-like strands from forehead and lighten bent and burdened shoulders. Every imperfection I’ve always seen from head to toe is painted in truth. The colors the Master Artist saw in His mind’s eye from the beginning of my time here. And when truth is accepted, He invites the Divine Weaver. Who holds a million threads in a mass of brilliant color. I cannot make sense of its riotous, overwhelming chaos. I don’t understand why he weaves and blends… none of it makes any sense. As I stand here in the vulnerability of all this newness… all I can see is frayed thread ends with knots and tangles. Colors I wouldn’t have chosen here and there. The Weaver asks me to trust His hands as they design and fashion a new garment. It’s both fascinating and nerve wracking and scary. I have never allowed anyone that much trust. As gold and silver are woven around the edges… my heart compares this garment to my own life. I see only frays and knots defining me. I want to believe there is something valuable and beautiful in all my chaos on the other side. I want to believe somewhere in all the riot of threads there is a semblance of order and design. Then the Weaver looks into my eyes. Asking me to trust him. He stands behind me and places the garment over my head, spinning me around to face him I see my reflection in his eyes. I am… “the apple of His eye,” I see someone I don’t recognize… l see myself as I was created. As his hand rests on my shoulder I am pulled into his embrace, belonging overcomes fear.
All these things coming together. His loving design accentuates what has always been there. Sharp edges of my sadness and painful circumstances softened and crumbled under my feet. Grey death that once covered my whole being… brushed away… color reveals life and goodness coming from the tiny spark inside a real beating heart. Rags exchanged for new garments that reveal his perfect design… all the stitches making sense.
Tranformation… comes in steps, where trust envelopes fear… and where truth crushes defeat. And I become a new creation. This is not a promise for just me… it’s for all. Reach out for it, ask He’s waiting… not pushing, forcing himself. Just waiting for your willingness.