res•tor•a•tion – the act of restoring; renewal, revival
Coming out of a spiritually dry season is like recovering from a debilitating illness.
I wrote this after the death of my father—a time of grief that was compounded by a six month absence from church while caring for him during his fight with cancer. It was a hard battle…one many would say he lost. But what looks like defeat to some may in actuality be victory. He would tell you, I believe, that it is a sweet victory to go to sleep and wake up in the arms of Jesus. And while we, his family, are still crushed and broken at his loss, we do not grieve as those with no hope…For we know to live is Christ and to die is much gain. Six years we have mourned for him—yet six years he has been with his Savior. Perspective makes all the difference.
res•tor•a•tion – the act of restoring; renewal, revival
Suffocating heat and paralyzing cold…blistering light and desolate darkness.
Stumbling. Crawling. Falling. This desert is a wretched and lonely existence.
My knees are raw and bloody; I cannot kneel before my God.
My lips are split and bleeding; I cannot praise Him.
My mouth is full of sand; I cannot pray.
My eyes are bleary with grime and grit; I cannot see God.
I am weak and infirmed for there is no nourishment in this cracked and barren land.
I am dying; it is a slow, agonizing death.
This dry and dusty wasteland of the soul is an utterly forsaken place.
Tumbleweeds blow aimlessly, whispering taunts of disgrace and indignity.
Dust devils scatter slurs of shame and slander and scorn.
Hope is eroded by hot winds of dismay and distrust, insult and insecurity.
Vultures circle and wolves howl. They condemn and mock. And they wait.
An oasis shimmers and wavers on the horizon; it seems achingly distant. Safety and sanity await me there.
It may prove the agony of yet another mirage, but still I press on, desperate to reach that shaded haven.
My throat is parched and my voice has long been silenced. Can God hear a feeble cry from a grieving and broken heart?
I have known from my father’s knee that He is Jehovah Roi – the God who sees me.
His mercy and goodness cannot be restrained; His steadfast love pursues me.
I feared the fight would end me, yet it is no longer I who claw my way through the wilderness but He who carries me. His arms are strong and sure. One can relax here.
He bears me from the Valley of Weeping into a place of refreshing springs . . . of shelter and sacred refuge.
He gently places me under cool palms; a gentle breeze strokes my chaffed and bruised body.
My senses delight in His lush garden, bursting with fragrance and flower.
There is peace within.
He washes my face and relieves its sting with His soothing balm. His tears mingle with mine and my sight is restored. Holy hands bind my wounds.···
He fills my mouth with sweet, cold water and speaks healing words of comfort and promise.
He reminds me that I am His – a beloved child.
I kneel. I pray. I praise. I can once again see God in this place. And He is glorious.
