Or maybe they were dancing…

The trees, that is.

Photo by Angelo Casto on Unsplash

After the storm,
I found my feet,
deep in debris. 
Aching for all that was lost.

Every breath felt like a knife, 
as my hand found the shrapnel lodged in my side.
Pull it out, I pleaded,
and looked to the sky. 

I saw the trees, downed, bent, and standing. 
Some living, some dying. 
Birds emerged and found their song, 
flowers fanned their colors,
and sky boasted pink, orange, 
refreshed, renewed.

As day dawned
and hope sprung forth 
uncaged and undaunted. 
Like little frogs released 
from a child’s cardboard terrarium.
A thought occurred to me…

Maybe they were dancing. 
Maybe the trees weren't just bending to the heaviness, 
or on the verge of breaking,
but rather dancing. 

Dancing to sadness, dancing to joy.  
They understood what we didn't: 
Beauty comes from ashes, 
and this too shall pass. 
Maybe we can turning bending into dancing.

Storms may destroy, 
but in their wake, 
new growth stretches for the sun. 
Maybe the wild songs 
move the trees to dance,
make the rocks cry out, 
and the wind howl. 

Perhaps it's mourning, perhaps it's weeping, 
but in the morning, it's mercy and grace and rejoicing. 

I feel the scar in my side,
inhale deep, 
and exhale long.

I'm not sure I can dance when the next tragedy comes, 
but maybe I'll try.
Because in our sufferings, 
we are made more like Christ.
We are moved to cling to the only one 
who forms the womb, the body, the trees, and the songs. 

Loss itself doesn't bring joy, 
Loss hurts and always will.
But the truth that a God exists who makes all things right
is reason enough for joy, 
reason enough to dance. 

Yet I call this to mind and therefore I have hope:

Because of the Lord’s faithful love
we do not perish,
for his mercies never end.
They are new every morning;
great is your faithfulness!

Lamentations 3:21-23

Reader friends, I just can’t stop thinking about the mystery that all of the natural world knows who God is. What an adventure it is for us to live in a world created by the Master Artist, the Lifegiver, the Sovereign God over all things. He knows the number of sand grains, all the answers to every unsolved mystery, every unmapped inch of the earth, and the names of every living, breathing thing.

God placed in my son a deep love for all bug and insect life. When I am about to squash an ant on my kitchen counter, he counters my attempts with, “God loves all creation, though! Don’t crush Bob!” And I think twice and let him carry Bob the ant outside. I’d be lying if I said I let all the ants and spiders go free and don’t set mouse traps, but his perspective makes me think twice or even three or four times before snuffing out the life of an “insignificant” insect.

Perhaps I look at this time in my life as my Observation Era. Immerse yourself in the created world, find adventure, listen to the trees, birds, wind, and water; I think you’ll hear their stories of the Maker. I am listening, and I know for certain, I’ll be writing about it.

And that shall be all for now.

Peace to you and yours,

Kelly