Fragility and why it's OK.

Fragile. I feel fragile as I gaze slowly out the smudged glass. Children's hand-prints grease across the clear pane.

The first snow of the winter has fallen, cold, onto my piece of earth. I drag my robe tighter around me like I can keep out the chill I feel in the pit of my stomach. 

I feel afraid, afraid of the cold, inhospitable days, afraid of the dark that lingers on the periphery of my soul looking for an opportunity to engulf me. 

I stand there longer than I should as light, barely perceptible, marks the horizon. Delicate rays shoot like hope in defiance of the dark. There is no darkness where light reaches. 

I watch, in wonder all over again, at how this bulk of a planet spins effortlessly to receive over and over again the gift of day. Faithfulness beams radiant now where sky meets land. It's unstoppable, this strength so low in the sky, breaking all the power of the dark, and with a mighty burst it spreads itself, fully given, into the fullness of morning. 

The breaking of the dawn has happened, the breaking of the black, the breaking of the power of the dark with all its hopelessness and despair, the unstoppable, inevitable strength of the light. There is no end to its power to illuminate all the hidden places with its warmth, no hiding in the light, no shame. The grey clouds become luminescent when they are touched by light. They reflect glory.

Light transforms the dull edges golden. Peace settles in my heart, alleviating the heaviness. There is always hope, because hope isn't about a set of circumstances, hope is a person. 

I breathe slower. Faithfulness, the faithfulness of the sun rising every morning. I trust in that. I rest in that. Hope, the hope that light really does drive out the darkness, I can rest in that too, because He is light (1). My light, my hope has no darkness at all in Him. He is the one that effortlessly drives away the darkness by simply being himself (2)

The sun crests full into the sky before this land. Newness of day touching billions of perfectly formed ice crystals, caressing their delicate edges like every single one is precious in its uniqueness. 

"Oh God, are you gentle with my fragile edges too?" 

I speak into the grace of the light. That grace which makes a haven of safety, a sanctuary; a knowing that I am seen and known and there is no shame. I feel the light falling weightless on the edges of my soul turning lifeless grey into glory. There's a reflection of the light from my frame making the rugged edges golden (2). 

The tree - it stands there bold in its nakedness letting light glance off it into glory. Me - us - do we see the glory in ourselves? In one another? Do we want the glory to be us instead of Him in us, through us, on us? 

We cover our shame instead of letting Him provide the glorious covering (3), and in doing so we are constantly trying to hide from one another, pretending. We are afraid. I am afraid. Vulnerability scares me, it scares us. 

Imperfection is a gift. A gift? I choke as I think about that. I hate my imperfections. 

"Authenticity is the daily practice of letting go of who we think we’re supposed to be and embracing who we are."(4)

I look again at that tree, shameless, receiving the light with outstretched limbs. The hope dances across the fragile snow - a covering given to this soiled earth. Beauty reflecting.

(1) 1 John 1:5
(2) Habbakuk 3:4
(3) 2 Corinthians 3:18
(4) Genesis 3:21
(5) The Gifts of Imperfection by Brene Brown


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