The Sting

 Catherina Noel is beautiful... and the maternal love shining effusively from her mother's very being is awe inspiring. When I went to see them a week and a half ago I was moved by how small and delicate  the body holding a spirit and personality of an entirely new person was; at the same time, I was moved by how large the being that came from my friend was! God is truly amazing. When I consider the plans He has for us, how He makes us in His image and how He brings us pathetic and beautiful into this world to be only what He can know, I am awed.

 

 

 

 Yet there are always two sides to every story and I, in such a short time, have been bombarded by the reality of both. On one hand I see the beginning of life so sweet, precious, and as innocent as one will ever be in this lifetime; and on the other I see the pain of a looked for end, in all the trial of suffering and loneliness death embodies. We are all going to die, it is less sure than taxes- for Christ might come and take some of us before our time but the government might still tax us after "death"- so it should not bother me so to say good-bye... when I consider that in a short while (what really is 7-10 years in the span of it all?) I will be seeing a beloved Opa off to Jesus I cannot be sad for him because he will be reunited with his son and wife and he'll be with his Lord whom he lived a full life for. Yet, my heart aches and cracks a little when I think that my kids will not know him and that he might never meet them either.

 

 O death where is thy sting? It is in the hearts of those left behind.

 

 I wish I had the calm demeanor of my friend Danielle, or the kind heart of Katie, the helping hands of Stacy, the straight forward encouragement of Kodi, or had been blessed with some form of intuitiveness for a sickroom far away... but I am helpless.

 I suppose that is why God lets me write my way down spirals of hopelessness until I get to that bottom line of uselessness and despair- so that He can remind me I am weak, yet, His stength is made perfect in weakness.

 

 As Orual drank the milk when she first learned to spar, or Thomas Hunter ate the fruit in the colored forest; as a sip of cool filtered water tastes sweeter than honey on a muggy summer day in Minnesota- so my belly is filled with hope that surges through my body when at my weakest moment I remember God just needs my weakness to perfectly show His strength.

 

I do not understand death; I think it will always hurt. It was not meant to be in the first place- neither suffering or loneliness either. Still I have one arrow left in my quiver, just enough stength to swing my sword again once; so I will shoot straight and swing hard- and pray.