Frail stems, tender leaves and blossoms outlast the storm.
How does the fragile petal cling so tight when the wind blows branches down nearby?
Things that are growing often remain.
The storm will blow, pull away the excess, the shadow and the curse.
When I am frail.
When I’m weak.
When I fall and my face follows.
His grace is like a storm.
It isn’t the meekness that rescues me, it is the smoke from His nostrils. The canopy of power, of love, of compassion that rises like a whirlwind to flush out the enemy of my soul.
It is not man, woman or child that brings me low, it is a darker force that works against me.
Only grace like a storm can route this foe.
“with great bolts of lightning.” (Psalm 18)
Only powerful love, an angry Father with no regard for anything but His child.
He rescues me.
He delights in me.
He pulls me out of the tightness of my despair and sets me in a spacious place. A place where my arms are free to lift and praise.
“The massiveness of His grace,” my friend wrote.
Yes, massive. Unending, billowing, full of wrath for the darkness and joy for the redeemed. I cannot come clean unless I am willing to subject my sin to His wrath. His grace like a storm releases me to be the me I was intended to be.
I am intent to grow, and He is intent to blow away the death from me. Refreshing me to begin again. Protecting me from within with grace, and blowing without…grace again.
It is His life within me that stretches me and strengthens me to be steadfast. His grace abounding that violently takes the Kingdom by force.
Allowing my life to be delicate,
bold,
peaceful,
resilient,
patient,
ready,
looking to Him with faith in my eyes to hear Him declare “I am your salvation.” (Psalm 35:3)
My God of grace. My storm and my shelter. This is love I cannot get enough of.