Yes, I see it all now (or will, eventually)

For a quick few minutes, before chaos reenters, I walk through an almost clean dining and living room (it won't stay this way for long). I'm thinking about a talk I'm to give this weekend. Worrying about it, actually.

I usually look forward to these things, sharing stories about our life, our children, our work and our future. And I have a somewhat general idea on what I am to share. A loose outline. A verse here, a deep thought there. But really, it's all jumbled in fuzzy pieces. The image is not yet clear.

For nothing is impossible with God.

The verse for the year. A grand thought.

What is it about this verse that stumps me? I feel uncomfortable with it, like I don't really believe it. I've heard of it and read others testify to it, but I don't think I've seen it.

Or rather, maybe I have, but it's not been impossible enough for me. Maybe I've been ignoring it, unaccepting of it, afraid of it.

So I read it from the Message:

“‘Everyone called her barren, and here she is six months pregnant! Nothing, you see, is impossible with God.’ And Mary said, ‘Yes, I see it all now: I’m the Lord’s maid, ready to serve. Let it be with me just as you say.’ Then the angel left her. ”

— Luke 1:36-38 MSG

I think it's not the impossible I'm to talk about. It's Elizabeth's story.

It's the waiting.

When He calls us to wait

calls us to be still

calls us to be with Him

rest in Him

trust in Him

for the impossible.

What if the staying, the waiting

is what allows us to see, to receive

the impossible?

We have no idea what God is saving us from, saving us for.

Joyful, painful ancitipation. A hopeful longing.

Until change finds me

I read her post today, and she poses a question that hurts and hopes in equal measure:

What does one do with all these half-painted dreams?

I wish I knew.

I put mine in a box, stored high on a shelf in our closet, visiting infrequently, afraid to look in. I see them in maps and pictures, displayed in a ratty apartment I can't wait to break free from. They call out to me, taunt me, frustrate me... 

"You're not there yet," they say.

I look to those clouds of change, after a hot and dry and unbearable summer, bringing in wind from a hurricane, dying down in our plains. Rain half-heartedly falls in desperate spits.

"Go, please go," they say.

What does one do with all these half-painted dreams? I pray, I sing songs (slow, tearful notes of hope), I go to the grocery store, I fold laundry and pick up legos and make my bed. Every day...  Until change finds me.

Vintage cursive loops of faith

Do you know what's amazing? Two grandmas circling 90, with a few dozen grandchildren and great-grandchildren between them, remembering to send a birthday card on time - nay - early, even! 

Eleanor and Gail, two women who had their own set of dark curls back in the day. One gave me the strong will and the outspoken nature. The other gave me the maternal spirit (some might call it "fretting") and the super sensitive skin.

Apart from the curls they are as different as night and day, but I belong to them. I bear their image and carry their legacy. Resilience and hope, courage and humility, grace and mercy.

I don't think I deserve them. In fact, I know I don't. I don't send birthday cards, I can be ungrateful, I am impatient with my children, and I am prone to wander. 

But they point the way. Imperfect and true. Vintage cursive loops of faith.

I open one of the cards and out drop a handful of pictures: me and my grandpa, grandma laughing, matching grandbabies in receiving blankets. Her gift to me on my 34th birthday.

I tell my sister and we sigh together, remember grandpa's laugh, think how perfect and generous it was for her to send them to me.

"Although..."  my sister says, suddenly very suspicious, "I am kind of worried she's starting to dole out her precious belongings."

Well, yeah, there's that.