Your Love Is River

Letters bounce in my fingers and tap through my fingertips, aching to come out somewhere, anywhere, and a blank computer canvas seems to be the perfect place.

Some people stay away from blogs because they don't want their personal diaries out in the world, there to be analyzed by an audience of strangers, friends, and those only held at arms length who clomp around the internet. 

Me?

Well, I guess I never intended this to be a place of raw emotion. It's more the chance to take a whirl at the brush and see if any beauty can come from the pain and joys and peace and brokenness of the everyday. 

So I type and type and type and try to bring redemption of some sort. 

But the Word whispers in my ear . . . I am the Redeemer, my Love. I am the Author of your story and as often as you try to write and rewrite and reorganize, . . . I am the only One who will make the ending sweet. Let go. 

I am no Redeemer. Not like my Jesus, but I am a witness to His redemption. 

And I beg to see it.

I beg to see it in the life of the family who's mother committed suicide on Friday.

I beg to see it in the life of a friend whose heart is broken, just when he was beginning to learn to be loved again.

I beg to see it in the life of the couple trying to figure out where their relationship goes from here . . . to move forward or to end? All for Jesus . . . through pain or joy. I pray for peace for them.

I beg to see it in the girl who has been running and running from Jesus. She sees Him trying to grab her attention again. Tragedy and tragedy comes, and He desires her HEART. But she's not quite ready to let go.

And Jesus? I beg to see it in me. The broken lover . . . the broken do-er and mover who can't seem to just be still in Your home. I beg to see it in my broken heart and my broken motives and motions and relationships. In my broken, cracked dreams. I beg to see it in my past decisions and actions and failures. I cannot redeem myself. 

We cannot redeem ourselves. Oh sweet friend, how often we try. We beat ourselves up, hoping we can bring redemption, work things out in the world so the balances are even. We try to over-correct our mistakes. We are not our redeemers.

But I know One who is very good at what He does.

Even when we can't see Him working.

He's beginning to show me His fingers again.

Moment by moment.

In different shadows and wells, I cup His love to my mouth and try to drink. I look at the sky when the birds soar across it and try to drink. I read the words that just fit and try to drink. I find His smile in the smile of a gentle heart and try to drink. 

And His love is our life, and His love, when we let it come and fill the dry corners, will bring a redemption of us. Because only love can change the dry, cracked, broken into something that can move and breathe and sing again. :)

Come, Redeemer. We will drink deeply of Your love and the hope found in hidden corners. Only You can redeem me.