boy to man finding his way and i am wearied in the building up, tearing down, rebuilding of parent and child. leaning in and pulling back for his stretching stumbling sometimes knowing, sometimes losing his way but going to find.
and my heart is for a while lost on floor, covered in the wood dust of a life being saw shaped.
in the cutting away of my control, in the rounded corners of mercy’s buffering. feeling the right weight of this worth.
truth’s intended design beside me on workbench, but sometimes only grace can open my eyes to the creator’s heart sculpture in the making.
prayer scans the room for my never fully lost heart. without explanation peace dusts it off until smooth to fit into my hoping chest again.
and i find the rhythm of my faith.
and he told them a parable to the effect that they ought always to pray and not lose heart….
luke 18.1-8 (ESV)