The evening sun catches on golden beads strung delicately along the silver thread of a spiders web. On closer inspection, I decide it’s amber sap that makes up these tiny luminescent pearls, though I can’t be sure. It’s a mystery I’m content to accept.
The day ran long with endless tasks and it’s only now, as the sun sags, that I sneak out to the yard while the kids sit with rapt attention to the TV. It’s a reward for them, and opportunity for me to breathe a little slower.
Life’s been a whirl of dizzy days filled with appointments and lessons, meetings and obligations a mile long. This is a tired season. Emotionally, I’m wrung right out.
Picking my way through the yard, armed with my camera and a few quiet moments of solitude, I seek asylum from my own distracted thoughts and doubts. With the lens pressed to my face, I hunt beauty.
Inside, it echoes. How I’ve nearly given up on believing in impossible things. I remember how my baby imagined herself a fish in the bath. How she dreamed that aquatic breathing could be a possibility for homo sapiens. It’s as ridiculous as whales that deliver God’s indignant messengers to the sands of their enemies.
Wrapping my limited mind around an unlimited God proves difficult when life rolls slowly through the mud of heartbreak and discontent.
We’ve struggled lately, it’s not a secret. And in the thick of it, believing in the impossible has felt exactly that–impossible. Ridiculous, even. I’ve turned my chin up at wonder. I’ve squinted my eyes to imagination.
The sunlight filters between the pickets casting a shimmery haze over the remains of the recently chopped logs waiting to be stacked. This golden hour shines with a hope that sometimes goes unseen under the blazing sun of noontime. I confess, my hopes had waned. I whisper it to the birds underneath the feeder. I’m not proud of my doubts–but I am no longer ashamed of them either.
The shimmery haze reveals tiny insects a whirl of steady activity. When I step to the right, with one foot down the hill, they disappear from view. I play this game for a few moments, stepping up and down the hill. They are visible, then invisible.
It’s not them that have moved, but me, they remain even when my eyes fail to see.
When did my imagination become so small that I stopped expecting the impossible?
Laura asks that question of herself and it rumbles inside me as I observe these tiny insects both revealed and hidden by the light.
I realize, as I’m stalking light and silver spiderwebs, that this is my version of a playdate with Abba. He’s invited me to the yard for a bit of show and tell. He reveals His glory and I listen to what His Spirit tells me.
I memorize the way the leaves have collected at the corners of the fence.
The dying of fall is necessary for the Spring season to bloom. It seems impossible that all of this decay will be transformed after the hard freeze of winter. Death always feels so permanent.
God transcends my small understanding. Believing in the impossible is a way of clinging to hope.
Hope waits fervently for what is yet unseen. Hope is air to gasping lungs. The promise of resurrection coming.
I breathe deeply before my youngest streams out of the back door.
“We thought you’d left” she says grinning, macaroni and cheese remnants clinging to her cheeks.
“I didn’t leave, I’ve been out here the whole time” I say.
I see it now. He’s been fully in the midst of our impossible season.
He’s been here the whole time.
This post was inspired by Laura’s new book, Playdates With God: Having A Childlike Faith In A Grownup World
“Playdates with God is a story of how God woos us back to our first love. Biblical and contemporary stories explore how God uses various human experiences and sensations to draw us closer into deeper intimacy with him. It’s the story of how a simple invitation to play can open up the eyes to joy . . . even in difficult circumstances.”
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