Trials come in sizes big and small. Sometimes the little ones are overwhelming – especially added up (or more appropriately multiplied by 5). A sick kid is a worry in a parent’s heart. There’s not much one can do but comfort, provide medicine and care, and stand back when the little one suddenly realizes he’s going to Jackson Pollock on the freshly cleaned carpet.

Sleepless nights, doctor’s bills, syrups, and sodas – these are our battle scars. Sometimes the war claims the little ones (sometimes before they climb out of their cozy caves). Sometimes the war returns them battered, torn, helpless.

We can face the world. We can teach our children to pause, to think, and with compassion to act. There’s not much we can do to stop the “bugs” the infections, the fevers. So we tend to their needs and pray – for patience, for protection, and for peace.

Do not rot in storage.

It’s a little saying I keep within reach. I use it to remind me uncomfortable circumstances aren’t as bad as they seem — they  often carry a purpose which is lost when I start rolling-up in self pity. However, the words could just as easily describe my plea to my readers to not grow impatient with me between posts!

I’ve a lot on my mind right now to write, but not the license (for lack of a better word) to put thoughts into words. The time will be right and the floodgates will open.

In the mean time, I keep tapping at the buttons trying to free the trapped thoughts longing to escape.

I’m sure you’ve heard the wisdom about two eyes, two ears, and one mouth. (We’re supposed to watch and listen more than we speak). It occurred to me as I sat trying to will words to the screen we have two hands for a similar purpose.

Clapping is a good way to show others ones enthusiasm, but when done too long it stings. But when we use our happy hands to help someone else we never tire.

In contrast, when we try to hold our own hands through times of sorrow or pain, we only end up wringing them together.

Hands were meant to carry things. A gentle hand holds hope. A strong grip gives security.

Thing is, we gain more hope, more security when we offer a hand to others in our time of need. I’m not saying it’s not right to help others when our fortunes soar. I just wonder…

If our hands were meant to hold, does it not make sense for their purpose to be filled even when we’re empty?

Sometimes, despite trying to unfurl new sails you get tied to the mast. My wife wrote today about a post I made in November 2005. (Her post can be found here).

I don’t mean to lead you in circles, but after reading her post I knew I needed to revisit the material and write with another perspective – a perspective I’ve noticed hovering around me since I last wrote on this subject. My wife’s words today moved me to let that perspective take residence within me.

When writing I often find my destination rarely ends up being the place I intended to travel. It’s as if I launch from the Eastern shore to follow the sunrise only to discover I’ve chased the sunset right back to shore. Don’t get me wrong. It’s amazing how easily perspective succumbs to the simplest changes. The light ahead can blind, but the light behind shines on familiar shore to reveal features previously undiscovered.

And so, in November, I had set a course to explore a different side of the Orphan from the verse to which I responded. I’m glad for the experience, and I now know why I wasn’t ready to write about the other image which was so clear to me then and so much more important to me now.

The lyrics I need to explore today are these:

Then I slept one night
In Abraham’s field
And dreamt there was no moon
The night he died
Counting stars
Selah

I love the painting the author put to canvas with these words. If you’ve ever seen the stars minus the city (any city) and the moon, you know exactly what I mean.  The unpolluted night sky is so dark, so lonely – and it makes one feel so small. And yet, there are so many stars poking through the blanket of darkness, one can’t help but feel anxious, like something big could happen any moment.

That is the feeling I get whenever I hear those words. But today, there’s more understanding than my awe can convey.

God made Abraham a promise to which the journey is not yet complete. It’s not easy to see the end of a promise we can’t understand. Nor do we usually comprehend those moments in our life so filled with darkness we feel isolated, unloved, alone. But it is only by that darkness we can see the millions upon millions of little lights hung to remind us of the quiet hope waiting to shine down on us

We try to drown out the darkness with noisy beams – flashy distractions from the emptiness we think we’ll face. We try to fill the loneliness with crowded streets of bustling business. But it’s only when the night is pure, when darkness casts it’s most complete shadow can we see the night as it is supposed to be seen.