Hope and patience, Fear and Faith

A patient storm grows slowly – clouds drifting into the purple and rust tinged twilight; the swift conquest imperceptible to the lazy children enjoying their long evenings of summer vacation – and slowly the small drops speckle the pavement and we stop for just a minute to question reality.  Rain?   Could it rain? And for a moment we are all children: enjoying the summer rain, arms spread wide, faces upturned – breathing in the humid freshness and the water falling from the sky rejuvenates our tired bodies and a twinge of hope implants itself in our otherwise dreary daily slog.  The world seems renewed.

Simple moments and hope.  The warm air caressing our arms as they spread wide to take in the raindrops.

A perfect dichotomy.

An oncoming storm.

And then it’s here:

As the fires wage their war on the drought ridden state, and as our hometown faces disaster, we are pulled toward leadership in another hometown.  Hearts pulled two different directions; and then a friend loses her father – a man of faith and vision and full of love and laughter and strength – and we all weep, because what else can be done?  How do we live into grief and fear and the unknown and still remember those small drops of hope?

As the kids went to bed the other night and we fell into our normal routine of walking in, giving hugs, professing love and hope for good sleep, and finally praying with all of them, the little voice at the end of the hallway said “Mom, I don’t know if I can believe in God.” and all I could think was – “Yep, it’s hard.”  So I sat down on the edge of her bed and gave her a hug and told her that not believing is a thing.  That it’s so important to always ask questions and really try and understand the answers to them as we choose what to believe and that it’s really okay to ask questions – to question faith, God, family, love, life and anything else you could possible think of – the intangible and illusive things that sometimes feel so close and sometimes so far away.

And now a week later the sun begins to slowly rise and quickly set.  The once bright mornings become dimmer and the smoke begins to drift from our house – replaced by fog – replaced by the slowness of autumn.  The seasons moving swiftly and reminding us to think about the rain, the question the world – to live into the life we’re given and to ask and grow and love and move forward.  Never forgetting the past – rebuilding our future with the foundations shaken into a stronghold firmer because the quaking tested it’s ability to stay standing.

This is a fragmented post – part summer, part weeks past, part looking forward.  Always a work in progress, but because I think we are all a work in progress, I’m pressing publish and continuing on.