Luke 6:48-49

For years, I’ve planted the daisies of my life on top of that concrete and expected them to bloom.

But it’s hard for hope to blossom when its roots are blocked by this obstruction that hides under the soil’s surface, that has taken up residence in my soul.

The roots of my hope recognize it as they try to stretch deeper into the nutrient-rich ground.  I suspect that my life’s fruit is limited by it.  Smaller blooms.  Duller color.  Abbreviated blossoming season.

I know it’s there.  When I put my shovel into the ground, I feel it first.  And when I dig deep enough, I see it.

Not a bedrock of faith in His providential care, but something else. 

A faith-sapping amalgamation of painful experiences, powerfully held together by a toxic mixture of doubt, worry, fear.

Heavy.  Stubborn.  Submerged.  Unwieldy.  Jagged edges clawing, drawing blood from the tender flesh of my heart.

Seemingly unyielding, it's broken down even the sturdiest of my faith-tools--this life-less, life-stealing mass. 

Yet I long for hope's vivid, uninhibited blossoms, and so I must dig it out.  Unearth it.  Exhume it.


  1. Anne, your soul is speaking to my soul! God is our Hope...and the author of peace and lover of concord. Love you and your work. Write on, my friend.


  2. Anne, Love your work and words. How they speak to my heart. Thank you for sharing your gifts with many. And I love you, my girl. Your Mom


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