Trusting is the point.

It's an ending statement.
A closure to a chapter.
The art of writing...

You put a period on the thought. An ellipses turns into a declarative statement. I find the words and attempt to write it down but the courage, yes courage, to physically extract the emotions from my mind and paste them in the path of wandering eyes brings an incredible sense of hesitation. The hesitation drawing not only from vulnerability but the affirmation that the emotions stem from real life.

A tear falls down my face, my heart is pounding... I pray for a fresh breeze to blow this storm out of my mind, but it never comes. The darkness continues with glimpses of the blue sky above the dense gray mass that has moments of full consumption of the space around my heart.

A mask is so easy to wear when you do not have to face the disaster every day. Yet, I think of her. The woman who has to wake up every morning to an empty bed. Who drives with no passenger. Who has no other person wearing a coupling wedding band.

Widowed.

The storm comes rushing back bringing rain this time. It pours, flooding the rivers rushing down my cheeks.

I love this woman. I love her strength through the last two years of battling alongside the man whose life was taken by cancer. They fought together. They fought bravely, deeply, and madly. Yet through it all they trusted God. 

God.
The one I call my own.
The one I live for daily.

I've heard questions, how can a loving God allow this to happen. Abruptly blurted. No answers come to mind. Yet, for some reason... darkness, hurtful, heart wrenching times draw me nearer to him. Or does he draw nearer to me?

Psalm 147:3 "He heals the brokenhearted binding up their wounds."

He heals.
He binds up wounds.
A loving God not just drawing near... he's in the midst of the mess.
Surgery. Bandages. Healing.

Healing.
How does one heal?
Physical healing - therapy.
A broken heart? How does one recover from such an extravagant wound? Time does not mend brokenness... time is the curse. The living without. Memories do not fade, causing shattered hearts to become sharp daggers. Scraping and slicing new wounds, raw emotions pouring forth.

Yet, I see improvement. I see it in me on the days the blue shines through the grayness. I see it in her ability to get out of bed each morning, to go to places that remind her of him, and her faith that God is still good.

Healing has begun.
Wounds turn to scars.
The pain stays, but it reminds us.
It reminds us of the deep voice singing "The Old Rugged Cross" in the midst of repairing a fence.
It reminds us that he had faith to the end.
It reminds us that God dealt with the death of his own child for the sake of others... and that pain even caused the father of our savior to look away. Brokenhearted.

So what does this mean?
Pain is inevitable.
Fortunately, with God... with God healing comes. Hope returns. Life springs back.
We smile again. We see the beauty in this world. The gray clouds turn to a mist and eventually, the mist evaporates, leaving a sun-filled view.

Joy. Yes, joy comes in the morning. (Psalm 30:5) God trades us the ashes for beauty, our mourning for joy, a spirit of despair for praise and then He sets deep roots, oak tree style roots, and claims us to be righteous for Him allowing us to bestow the beauty of his splendor. It all starts with the pain... the ashes. In that, in that we become right with God.  (Isaiah 61:1-3)

Trusting in the all consuming scrutiny of pain... that is the point.