Alone time. It’s not something that I have on a regular basis. And this past fall was quite a “knock the wind outa your sails” season for me on several fronts. So when we had the opportunity to visit sweet friends in North Carolina over the holidays, I found myself with that rare moment to take a long and fairly ugly trail run through the woods. Ugly, because trail running is not my thing; I can’t ever seem to find my “groove” between avoiding tree roots and surrendering to the inability to set a pace of any sort. Ugly, because somewhere in mile two, I had a run-in with a wicked briar patch. Ugly, because me running uphill in the woods is about as graceful as a gorilla’s attempt at the same.
So, after a few miles of this awkwardness in exercise form (I still loved it, though... even with bleeding shins), I took a breather in a nearly hidden cemetery behind this little country church. I walked around it for a bit, checking out the family names and daydreaming about what their lives had been like, who they were and what was said of them on the day they’d been buried there in that little plot of ground. And after a while, I settled underneath a large, gnarly tree that was on the edge of this sacred space.
With stolen time to sit and think, I spread out and looked up through those dark, outstretched branches to the brilliant blue sky beyond. Being in the middle of winter with its covering of leaves long gone, the ugliness of those limbs was laid bare for the world to see. Exposed. And even as those immense branches reached heavenward, there was no denying the evidence of past storms... knobs where limbs should have been, branches that took sudden, awkward twists and turns, gashes in the bark. Like I said, gnarly.
Gnarly, but still reaching.
I could relate to that.
What poured out in that moment and filled me right back up was the mirror-like reflection I faced in looking up through that tree. With the absence of all things green, what was left behind seemed a skeleton of what once was. And yet there was this reaching. When so much appeared brown and brittle, hope remained. In the midst of brokenness, there was a sense of praise- wounded arms outstretched.
But, HOW? Where is that kind of hope found?
It’s found in Christ. Hope in the One who is the Creator, Lover, and Redeemer of mankind (John 1:1-4, 2 Peter 3:9). Hope in the One who promised salvation for all who believe (John 3:16). Hope in the One who knows us intimately (Psalm 139:13). Hope in the One who cares and comforts the brokenhearted (2 Corinthians 1:3-4, 1 Peter 5:6-7). Hope in the One who will continue to sanctify and mold us for His purposes until we see Him one day face to face, whole and perfected (Philippians 1:6, 3:12). Hope in the One who is preparing a place for us (John 14:2). And no matter my circumstances, it’s this Truth of Hope that paves the way for worship... even as my weaknesses are laid bare.
So, may these exposed branches still reach, still stretch, still praise. May my heart soften with the remembrance of all that He is and all that He promised, regardless of the aching, the longing, and the questions. May His Truth of Hope light up the dark places where doubt tries to seep. And let that be enough to sustain me through this season of winter...
...but may spring follow in quick succession with its promise of fresh green growth, shooting up from the broken and the brown.
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