shadowwonder

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 l

Summer’s daisies.  Last spring, I felt the need for a flowerbed-full to welcome friends and neighbors. Which is why I started digging in early May. The plants were hearty, so their new homes needed to be roomy.  A good eighteen inches wide and deep.  Breaking up the heat-hardened soil would be no small task.  But, old shovel in hand, I was determined.  Maybe even a little excited about making space for transformation right outside my front door.  For now, tiny green buds were tucked inside long green leaves, waiting.  Starting like a tightly closed fist, petals would soon loosen, white fingers stretching to reveal the yellow center.   Countless hands would open, hopeful, towards the warm sky.  And so I began.  Though it was strenuous work, the beads of my perspiration were mixed with anticipation of the beauty to come. Finally, it was time for the final hole.  The first layers of dirt came up easily, but as I dug deeper, the task became more difficult.  Even when