Just when you think the sun has come out to stay

If you grew up in Texas on the coast as I did or in any other wet climate, then you know what it is like to experience rain day after day after day. I remember one summer that precipitation occurred every day in some form or fashion for more than 40 days. We joked that some little old lady at church must have been asking God to spiritually “send the rain.” There were times that thunder would begin to roll just as you thought the sun was out to stay. But, then the drizzle would begin. The fog would set in. Cats and dogs would commence pouring from the clouds in all their wet fury. Backyards became marshlands. Mosquitoes enjoyed a heyday. The neighbor kids played in rafts on the 6 foot rapids flowing through the back acreage.  

Over the past several weeks, the sun has shown brightly in my heart. Thankfulness has begun to dry out the marshland of my emotions. I’ve learned from many of you how to give thanks for pain, surrendering to the refining power of trials. I’ve learned from many of you how to be content in all things – or at least begun that virtuous endeavor. Maybe you too have experienced a blissful break from the thunder and lightning that has regularly marred your days. Maybe you too have been satisfied by the goodness of God. Lived in the moment. Breathed in the glory of Christ. 

I will be honest. The storm hit with all its frightening fury this morning. Though better prepared to handle the rolling breakers, the disappointment still tastes just as bitter. The clouds still appear just as gloomy. And yet, this blog’s transparency will not allow me to share only my victories. I have to believe that others also need to share in my anger, my struggles, my heartache. May my writing though never be just about me. Please read this not through my perspective, but through the lens of our Heavenly Father who wants to hear from you too. He is big enough and powerful enough to carry your pain as well as mine. Cry out to Him!


Father God,

Tears blur my vision and fall like rain off the tip of my nose.

I hurt today, Father. I am disappointed today. I want to wait on Your promises, but I don’t even know how to see straight right now. I don’t know how to be all here in this moment. A fog of discouragement wants to overshadow my heart.

Tears continue to plop on my journal page.

I pour out my heart before You. I ache for Your total healing. I long for the answer. I am in a wilderness of bareness and sadness this morning.

The ink on the journal page begins to run together.

Will you carry me? Will You dine with me? Will You carry me? Will You overshadow me with Your Presence? I draw near to You. Please hold me. I don’t understand why You tarry. I don’t understand why You’ve withheld a baby – the desire of my heart – during this season. Please, Lord, during this Advent time, hear my cry for a miracle!

May I expectantly wait for You. May I celebrate Emanuel, God With Us. Imagine . . .

Mary is growing full with child. The Christ is about to be born. She is stretching with the heaviness of Salvation growing to completeness.

May I hope with assurance of Your coming as Mary did.

How do I count this “sheer gift,” as James 1 exhorts? I choose to surrender myself to You. As Mary uttered, here is Your maidservant. Let it be to me according to Your Word. May I stretch and grow with the heaviness of Salvation coming to completeness.

I give thanks that I am never alone. I give thanks that I am being tried by fire. I give thanks that Your arms wrap around me whether I am content or fighting against You. You never let go.

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