Where is my faith?

I look out of my window, as I write these words, in view of a wintry countryside.

The bees and the badgers are asleep; the birds perch hungrily on the bare twigs, nature seems dead for ever; yet not so. Faith tells me that soon the badgers and the bees will awake, the twigs will blossom with leaves, the birds sing joyously as they once more build their nest and the dead earth renew itself by wearing all the greenery of yet another harvest. This is a faith easily held. We know-or think we do- that spring will always return.

Now I turn my glance from the window into my own heart, seeing there, the litter and the dust of wasted years, old appetite that still could be reanimated, old hopes and desires that flounder on even though whatever outcome they might expect to have, has long ago proved illusory. This too- the interior of my heart –seems a dead landscape. Yet faith tells me likewise, can have a spring if I would believe.

But do I believe? As I was once taught, that faith simply means to believe.  To trust God and be assured of things hoped for, to come to pass.

I remind myself that no help from man assures the progressive change in nature. For the day turns into night and the showers of rain pour to fertilize the greenery of the earth, while the sun does not overtake the rain before it’s time but waits patiently for an unheard and unseen order before spreading itself to gather the cloud and the poodle.  And so these take its toll day by day, and season after the next, to remind us of the faithfulness of Him, through whom all things were made.

Yet, I scuttle in life to adjust the seasons of each phase I encounter. I worry and fret and put things in my care, as if to say my performance will make each stage a reality. So then I lose hope when the dark shade of gray covers my sky, I weep when the sun is not smiling  and I’m bitter because it’s raining and I forget that though sorrow may last long, joy  will surely come in the morning.

I forget to recall my past blessings that will bring my assurance of hope. These I do and tamper with the grand master’s plan; like a seed planted which must die first, and then bud; I keep digging the soil checking if it has bud yet.


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