The dying leaves wrapped up secret life, and hidden whispers of newness was coddled in the barren land. I wrote about the concealed beauty here, the imagery here, grasping the gift of tangible hope. Dead leaves but new chicks, and blossoms in bloom that would wither too soon.
Weeks later, I arrived home from being days gone solo, spirit-rested and self-refueled, and the kids greeted me with hugs and laughter and glee. We chatted and caught up, and then the eldest got serious, sadly said it: “A chick died.” My face fell.
“We had a big, big storm,” he explains it, “And we found one in the yard, dead.”
My heart hurts, hurts for the sadness of the tiny creature, storm tossed and lost, and his mama, where is she? And what of the other? The planter sits empty now. Still all brown, still all dead looking, but now it feels dead. The Finch Family doesn’t come around anymore, Mama Finch doesn’t bring gifts back to her littles, we don’t hear chirping at all. Where are they all? Are they all dead, or just moved on because their safe place was too storm tossed? I can’t bear to take the basket down. To give up on them like that. But it hangs heavier now.
How can God take even the shred of hidden hope we have sometimes and allow the sad ending to come to the very bit of it? How can He show us an image of His grace and allow grace to turn to grave?
There was a day, a friend needed ribbon, texted me to ask, and I went down into the basement to get it. And on the way to find it, I saw something else forgotten and much needed to be remembered for an appointment that day. I was joy-filled, and thanked God for red ribbon reminders, saw His hand in the details. Held on to the imagery of His provision.
And then we got a call- the appointment was canceled, and the ribbon? It didn’t end up needing to be borrowed anyways.
Sometimes I find myself so desperately thirsty to see Him, so famished to hold His hand, and I cling to prospects of it and try to grasp glimpses of Him. I’m the woman reaching out for His cloak, the woman requesting crumbs, the woman wiping His feet with her tears.
I’m the woman reaching out for His cloak, the woman requesting crumbs, the woman wiping His feet with her tears.
Honestly, when I look around now? Past the gifts of going-well things and gratitude- I look around and see beyond and see so much broken, so much hard, so many unhappy endings. And how does God do it? Hold the weight of every tragic story, every unhappy ending. Honestly, I look around in my circles and my heart feels like it could actually crush from the pain of it all, the weight of it all, and God, how could such good people suffer such deep hurts?
Sometimes it feels like the whole world is burning and entire communities are swallowed in loss, and isn’t this the truth? All creation is groaning and aching and in pain (Romans 8:22). And we reel and lament and our arms reach out and flail in frantic help-attempts, but we can’t undo the deaths and we can’t heal the diseases and we can’t uproot the harms.
The other flowers that had been blooming so fully have predictably died. But the chicks living on? The storm claims and questions remain.
So often life doesn’t turn out like we think, like we hope. And we look at the lives around us and see derailing everywhere. And storms come and chicks fall and grace vanishes into graves. And it can feel like life is an ongoing petal-pulling charade and that last petal falls on He loves me not.
But there’s a verse, a simple, well-known word, that pulls me back, grounds me: “Are not two sparrows sold for a penny? Yet not one of them falls to the ground apart from your Father’s care.” (Matthew 10:29 NIV)
I don’t understand how His hand can be on the fallen sparrows, and yet it gives me such hope. Because maybe I’m looking for His hand in all the wrong places- in the neat bow-ties, and happy endings- and I think I’m not seeing His hand, but maybe I’m seeing His hand all around me when I see all the fallen and broken and dead ends and sad endings.
Because isn’t that where His hand is most needed? And isn’t that where the miracles will come?
What if His hand is here, in the middle of the messiness and the aching and the groaning, and goodness knows we do preach that this world is cursed and that is why the Rescuer is needed and comes.
When we see the sad endings, we need the faith to see the unseen, need the faith to cling to a God Who sees us even when we can’t see Him.
Because, yes, maybe there’s hidden beauty here, or maybe, maybe it is all broken and death because resurrection is still waiting to come.
The curse is real. The Rescuer is needed. His hand is here. And He is coming.