Sometimes I feel a little like a stranger in this new house. I do not recognize these things, this couch, this chair, the picture on the wall. It’s pretty and new, yet a bit like living in a hotel. Sometimes I find myself looking for something. I must have packed it away, it must be here somewhere. But after looking through the boxes I realize, I’m looking for memories. So I stop to remember.
Sometimes death burns like wildfire through what was your life, and you are left with nothing but a gaping hole in the ground. So you learn to plant seeds in the dust. Wait. Keep waiting. When the seeds grow, you’re not even sure if you like what you see. It’s new. Different. Never quite the same.
I feel like that now, like I’m staring at a strange new hopeful shoot of growth. I don’t know yet what it is. Don’t know if I like it or not. I can still see the ashes, still feel the searing heat sometimes, and I miss what was taken away. I want to take this plant out of the ashes, make it into what I want it to be. Shiny and clean and protected somehow. I want to be the gardener. Maybe I could grow something better.
Yet I know, without deep roots, new growth dies. To move forward whole you must remember the past. Remember the messy, and not be afraid. And I hear Jesus say that he came to live with people, with me, in the dusty, ashen places. That he came to take what was broken in the depth of our insides and heal it. That I was chosen for this layered, complicated life and he is the gardener.
I don’t really know what it all means, or will mean one day. But he keeps planting seeds. And I keep waiting, keep trying to grow.
One day, we will see something beautiful. It won’t be in the perfect house, or the safest neighbourhood, or most dreamy circumstances. But one day, when I see him, when I am finally Home, I know all this will be beautiful.