Morning makes its entrance. Glorious colors spill across the earth. The rich, scented dirt that connects us to each other, runs deep. The farmer works. Caloused hands to the till, skin weathered, wrinkles moving with each step. Sweat trickling before the hour has passed. This is toil and work and effort, each muscle coaxing the breaking of this portion of the world. Begging life from the dead.
I am he. I am the farmer. But this soil, it is my life. Years of gain and loss. My breath catches in my throat, and I am reminded to name it. Anger. Loss. Pain. And to set it free. I plunge my hands into that richness that grounds me, reminds me I am but a human, but a breath in the wind. A breath still alive. A heart still pounding.
There are moments where my faith has eyes and the vision stretches beyond my present kneeling. I can dig deep with hands of purpose, overturning earth, planting seeds, and believing that they will grow and live and produce. And the effort does not tire me, the pain does not blind me, because love is stronger.
Other times, like tonight, this mountain seems greater than I. Can it be moved? Is it fertile? Will my efforts lead to a harvest? My heart knows it is so. My mind has seen it before. This road is not new. But I hate this doubt. It weakens. I know it will pass as the night does. I will be renewed in the morning. But for now, I am sunk low between the rocks.
I picture myself, knees to the ground, dirt pressed to my forehead, wondering. No. Yearning for harvest. Yearning for the fruit that will testify the worth of this pruning.
This garden is not the garden I want. Everything in me wants another. A kingdom. Heaven on earth where He walks with me and He talks with me and He tells me I am His own. Can I have but a glimpse here?
Then the children shout with glee, blissfully unaware of the reality of the pain. They breathe air that is light and clean and not soaked full of fear. They laugh, and it echoes from far and wide, and in that sound I can hear forever. Forever. A taste of that heavenly garden descends into my earthly toiling and I recognize it. I want to give it all for one day of that beauty and yet I long, I pray, and I plead for a lifetime of it here and now.
I am longing for the throne room.
And as I pull air in and out of my lungs, I can feel it. Yes, I am not alone.
Creation, too, is groaning for the throne room.
And in that whisper of wind, the mountain moves. A sliver of green life unfurls from its bed, and the ground, so broken and torn, births a bud. And just like I named the anger and pain and fear, this too shall be named. In the name, I find hope. He is Jesus. He is here now. Amidst the staining mire of suffering, He calls to me. And I am home.