The Waiting & The Rising
I woke to the rising. In the evening we laid down the embryonic balls of yeast. Flat, filled with expectancy. Colorless, void of much. Hoping the transformation would yield goodness. Trusting the changes would give us, the hungry, sustenance even abundance. In the morning.
In the new mercy morning, the air told faint tales, held shy signs and gave hope. There would be a rising. Fullness would come. Yeasty promise had started its morphing into promise. Hope was rising.
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We went to bed last night with a heaviness. Some one dear to us is struggling. From miles away we wrestle with all the emotions. This longing for the best for this wanderer is an ache that pierces. It rises up within us. And yet it is not for me. I lay it down again and again. Knowing the promise that He is there. I offer the pain into His hands, again. He is the potter. And what lovely work He has done. He has shown me. I must recall.
We are co-wrestlers in the battle for a life well-lived. A life of yielding into His deepest longings for us, His children. A life of bending a knee and bending an ear. Of surrendering and yielding. Listening and seeking. Yearning. Quieting our spirits to hear his will.
Goodness and mercy are here and coming. Heaving up in the rising.
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I offered a gift. My soul knew. I had been there before. Heard the faint cry. I will send it soon. But the collecting and gathering, the sending of little hints and clues as to what it will be will bring me joy. I will anticipate the giving as she anticipates the receiving. We will delight together. My friend and I will gather as two around the table of fellowship. Just as the prayer gathers around the hurting and wounded. Just as the Christ-follower hovers over, in gentle tenderness, with love in love, for the ones with spirit that is broken.
I will give. She is open to receive. A transaction of love will take place.
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Oh that we would await the rising up. Hold fast in the waiting. Hold steady, though fragile, in the times of doubt.
I know the gifts He has given in the seasons of waiting. I remember his goodness. I recall it. And I look for clues that there is more goodness to gather up.
The Yarrow he designed is tall and waving. The Queen Ann’s Lace is transforming my yard into a garden for royalty. The hummingbird came to my window last night at dusk in search. My garden is exploding with promise. A packet of seeds is in the past. The fruit on the squash is tender and young. Strawberries are green, but they will be crimson and sweet. Soon. They promise me and hold me in my waiting.
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This morning the flat monochromatic mounds rose up. And turned a light brown. Layer upon layer of goodness held a steamy comfort in every bite. Croissants. Every bite a remembering. Of times and things I have loved.
elizabeth w. marshall 