Sometimes I feel just like an ice sculpture. I can be beautiful and transparent, and at the same time, cold and immovable. It's hard to remember when you are frozen solid that you are fearfully and wonderfully made. That the same potter who fashions the clay, is the Ice Scuplter who works through the cold to make you into something lovely.
Another midwestern winter. Michigan is frigid and gray, and my soul dies a little bit more each time I meet the season. I'm glad I'm getting older. That means there won't be as many Decembers in front of me as there are behind me, and I take comfort in that, although it frightens me at the same time.
I guess I'm wintering. My body is numb with sleep, grasping at fleeting dreams of bright yellow dandelions and grass green enough to take one's breath away. I dream of awakening, having endured the sweet torture of the Ice Sculpters instruments, chipping away at blocks of useless me to reveal the wonder of who who and what I am beneath solid water.
How Jesus loves us, even in the winter when the days are short and the sky too dark. How He hurts with us, His tears falling to the desolate, aching earth, touching cold, turning into soft, white snow, swirling about this rigid, see-through soul.
I love you, Jesus. In spite of myself.
Come quickly, Lord, Sun of my soul,
and bring the blinding light of Spring with You,
swallowing the dark,
melting the icy me,
water giving way to earth,
then straining back to Sun,
and Your delight.
I'm awaiting your touch, Tender God of sun and snow
Your ragamuffin freeza