We who now make history feel engulfed by the repercussions of yesterday’s follies and the deluge of tomorrow’s passage. The sea will be in turmoil our entire voyage. The weight threatens to crush life right out of this existence. And the only thing that will save us is the paradox of True Life, the weight of glory.
Paradox expounds its mystery and interprets ours: Eternity enters our time, now our time is His.
And in the swelling questions, the cultural currents, the raucous winds, the people of Domini cling to His Paradox, the reality of I AM in time. We hear the song of the resurrection, above, within, through the fatal tempest—life through death, life conquers death.
And where should we be? Where He is, because where I AM is, there is life. We will find Him in praise, because He occupies the praise spaces of His people. Every moment, every wave, every raindrop, where Christ Jesus is delighted in as Lord, is worship.
His dominion makes sense of our time, and enables us to live in the year of our LORD.
So, teach us to number our days, that we may gain a heart of wisdom.
The heart ruminates blessings by remembering . . . sweetness revelled in longer, as the mind’s tongue rolls image and smell and texture over and over. I begin to savour. Long and happy days with my childhood friend-turned-mother-of-two, my older sister-with-youngest-squirt-in-tow, and my younger-dreamer-sister. These are gifts, and I am thankful.
Childhood bosom friend and sister redesign my blog:
Dancing with wee ones:
Little girl unfolding and refolding laundry:
Deep soul baby smiles:
Playing just like the concert pianist:
Three sisters reunited:
Baby talk:
Sleeping with borrowed baby:
But why?
Why should we be glad for something we have not yet seen?
Why should we cherish such fervent expectation? Who gave us such a notion?
But then, tragedy strikes. Spring herself has gone missing. At first, she was just delayed, and we could bear it. But then news leaks that she has been caught up in foreign affairs. And our hearts flutter with momentary fear. Winter can be dogmatic and unfeeling: marvellous to wrap it citizens in fluffy coats of white, but unpredictable—sometimes the covers smother and stifle us.
We rally, and bring out coloured garments, go shopping for something new and bright. Our hearts betray our bustle. We worry, we fear, we bicker. It’s taking too long. We take out mounting frustration in vigorous labour, increased entertainment, louder noise—dulling the gnawing ache. 
Then we hear the news: Spring is further delayed at the embassy, perhaps even against her will, so the previous governor fills in till her arrival. He tries to be gentle and soft, but soft snow is wet snow, and we mutter choice complaints as we shuffle and slip along. We’re miffed.
But why? Why are we so disappointed by this withholding?
What were we expecting?
We bring boot and coat out of storage, and labour again in Winter’s fields, sighing resolutions, battling despair. Tears flow. Hearts heave. Heads bow. 
And then, the unexpected occurs. Our hearts begin melting. We didn’t even know they were frozen! Disappointment, anger, irritation, dissolve into streams of liquid grief. We see our stiffness, we feel our coldness, we struggle for air under the weight of our costumes.
And Winter thaws our hearts. We begin to see him, not as the enemy, but as a benefactor. In his exhausting reign, he revealed our impatience, our snootiness, our bigotry, and greed. We bow in shame and realized poverty; (and our hearts rise to face the dawning sun). We muscle slush, knowing we deserve nothing better; ( and our hands are strengthened ). We plod along; (and our legs grow stalwart).
And why? Why should we not mind the bitter blow?
Because we have seen the King. Because He has entered our sorrow and conquered our enemies. Being with Him dissipates our fear, dissolves our resignation, evaporates our gross rebellion.
Something stirs in our hearts, we feel the washing of a liquid stream. Could we be overcome by this wonder?
We look around, and gape in astonishment: when did blades of grass appear? When did tulips push through the mulch and snow?
We turn, dumbstruck, to the King. And He looks deep into us, through us, and smiles.
Then, He takes our hand, gently bracing our frame, and hums a love song. Before we know it, we discover that we’re dancing . . . with the King!
And that giggle behind our shoulder. It is Spring, waltzing with Winter.
And all at once we realize it: all our wishing and planning and groaning were not wasted. All our tears had a purpose, all our tripping and struggles are swept into a flurry of praise. This ball was not about us, not about Winter, nor Spring.
This is the King’s dance. And He makes all things—darkness and grief and sorrow and horror—to work together for His pleasure.
And we are His, in this dance of HOPE.
“Therefore my heart is glad, and my glory rejoices; my flesh also will rest in hope . . . You will show me the path of life; in Your presence is fullness of joy; at Your right hand are pleasures forevermore.” Ps. 16:11
“And not only that, but we also glory in tribulations, knowing that tribulation produces perseverance, and perseverance character, and character, hope. Now hope does not disappoint, because the love of God has been poured out in our hearts by the Holy Spirit Who was given to us.”
Then, the “reliable” PC won’t work. The typical dialog boxes evade my screen, and an impotent stranger flashes unhelpful information when I order a print job. It’s like talking to a recording: no logic, no relationship, no help, and no sense of timing— I can’t stand here like an idiot day after day, waiting for a solution from an uncooperative machine. This silent treatment grates me.
I pull cords, turn off power, start it up again . . . nothing.
I uninstall the nearly-full cartridge, and switch it for a refilled one . . . nothing.
I wipe the cartridge openings with glass cleaner to remove sediments or dried ink . . . nothing.
Finally, I plop the whole works into an empty apple box and haul it to the store. Surely the associates will have answers, or even suggestions, to help me out. When I ask, I am told they are not registered to do maintenance work on this brand. I’d have to call the manufacturer about the warranty. Great: more communication with machines.
Pulsing between aggravation, defeat, and abandon with the menace, I bring it home again. I try to ignore the problem, but we both know we can’t live this way. I hate this helplessness, this mounting frustration, this emerging reality of no way out and no happy ending.
So, I vent to Dad in a bullet-point e-mail list. I don’t care if he can’t help. I just want someone bigger than me to know I’m miserable. He sends back a message of radical reality: “Are you selecting the proper printer as we installed my HP when you were home when we worked on the Quicken books.”
Installing the farm printer made it the preferred machine, showing up first in the queue. Hence, the strange dialog boxes and un-received signals.
Can it really be that simple? I change the settings. I order a print job. I hear the machine grunting, digesting paper. It spews out a beautiful printed page.
I’m deflated, relieved, exhilarated all at once.
What do I learn from this?
Stupidity is trying the same things over and over, expecting different results.
Specific rules govern the process of problem-solving: following the rules leads to the solution. Fixing the wrong problem does not help.
Confession ushers in the best results. Pouting keeps me boorish and isolated from help.
Joy comes in relationship—being willing to die to the pride and fear that bind us in hopeless seclusion.
Hope becomes reality when I realize there is Someone Bigger than me Who knows . . . and cares . . . that I am miserable. And He can abate the cause of my misery.
Isn’t this the Gospel? That we failed, and God did not, and He came, and He rescued us?
So God, open my eyes to see You Gospel-ing me every day, because where You are is life, where You reign is peace, and where You rescue is joy.
