Arrivals.

1For He is good, for His steadfast love endures forever.

– Psalm 136

There's no place I could go where you won't find me.

– Bethel Music

17For this light momentary affliction is preparing for us 

an eternal weight of glory beyond all comparison.

– 2 Corinthians 4

There will be days of restlessness. They will plague you with their incessant interruption, their unwanted presence. There will be days when all you want is that slowness you used to partake of. There will be days of fatigue and constant sacrifice, days of doubt and suffering, days of giving up.
I promise you, there will be days when you will give up. 
And yet, His purpose for you remains unchanged. 
You still wake up. You still breathe. You are still there. You speak and move and change and grow and shift, even as you feel your feet sliding backwards. Even as you stumble. Even in your disbelief. Even if the mountain is too big. 
He has a use for you.
You need only extend your hand. 

That is one of the hardest parts of this. I won't lie to you, and I won't deny it. It is difficult and trying. Because more often than not, we want to wallow in our pain, we want to lay on the ground with our arms wrapped around our stomachs and be enveloped in our aches for just a while longer. We want to make it about us. We want to reject His redemption and His sovereignty. We want to rest in our suffering, because if we do not remain there, we must continue on into even more sorrow. So we allow our wounds to fester. We slap His hand away when He assures us that He can bind them. We tremble and quiver like the snapping willows in the winds of November. We march back and forth, across the same small space. We lie and say we're alright. 

We lie and say we're alright. 

We're not though, not really. And we won't be until we allow Him to begin to heal us. Until we accept again that He uses all for good, even if we don't understand it. Until we gain perspective, pull back onto our shoulders the weight of glory. Until we resolve to remember the hole in our ear which speaks of the servitude we promised when we nailed it to His door. Until we welcome His goodness, despite our doubts and grief. 

You can live your whole life holding hands with anguish. Or you can choose to take the Savior's instead. 

It is alright to not understand, to not be okay, to have restless days. We're only human, and He does not fault us for that. He does not expect perfection, but only that we would strive to be better and remember His promises. There's nothing harsh in that calling, not an inkling of condemnation towards us in His character. 

You're not in this alone.

His comfort and healing are consistently available to us. Our restlessness is our own. Remind yourself of your purpose, and all will be well. Live gently, but allow ferocity into your spirit. Claim your name as a warrior, even a wounded one, because you are in the legion of the Maker and the Hope-bringer and the Giver, and He has the power to make this all bigger than just you.
Do not allow your circumstances to cut you at the ankles, but gather courage and let Him aid you in your stance. 

The truth? Spring is coming, even in the midst of your heartache.

Sit in the warm, mellow sunlight. Listen to the cello. Run through parks and trails and forests and along streams. Devote time to Him. Speak of your afflictions. Cultivate community. Cherish what you do have. Don't be alright, and then be alright. Read stories of impossible accomplishments. Create and make. Serve. Thank Him. Embrace purpose. Live and live and then live even more. 

For tomorrow comes. She comes in spite of your disbelief.