With God, We don’t have to redact our wrestlings, Airbrush our mascara trails, Mute our howls of anguish, Bury our fears. Whatever the heights or depths Of our feelings, He can bear them. Whether I jump for joy Or collapse on the closet floor, Sobbing, Or pound puny fists on His chest, He invites me to come In all my raw reality. Even better, He desires me to come; He treasures my tears in his bottle, Records my sorrows in His book, Dances with my joys. He is brighter than my darkest days, Bigger than my heaviest burdens, Eternal in His love and mercy and Justice and holiness. Because He is the Lord And my Lord, Joy is my inheritance forever, Even if the earthly worst should come For now.

“Though the fig tree does not bud And there is no fruit on the vines, though the olive crop fails and the fields produce no food, though the flocks disappear from the pen and there are no herds in the stalls, yet I will celebrate in the Lord; I will rejoice in the God of my salvation! The Lord my Lord is my strength; he makes my feet like those of a deer and enables me to walk on mountain heights! For the choir director: on stringed instruments.” ‭‭Habakkuk‬ ‭3‬:‭17‬-‭19‬ ‭CSB‬‬

[The brown and white bird with golden eye, perched on the black metal garden fence, is a brown thrasher. We have enjoyed its visits to Wingshadow this spring, despite its apparent dislike of paparazzi. In size, it resembles a robin.]

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