“Stained-Glass”: In Which the Author Describes Her Writing and Blogging Philosophies

NOTE: If you’re patient and read it through, this piece will make much more sense than I have been making lately. Rest assured of that fact, and enjoy!

My beloved readers, please to pull an overstuffed armchair toward a roaring fire on this blustery day we’re experiencing, hold in one hand your beverage of choice, and listen up. I want to tell you a story. And before you read it and come away thinking that I have simply become too eccentric for your further acquaintance and/or friendship, please do read at least two paragraphs beyond the section marked off by asterisks.

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Last Sunday, I did something that would have astonished many of you had you had the opportunity to witness it. It was late evening, and I was walking through a public place that now seems much too inconsequential to describe in full detail. Suffice it to say that this building was equipped with a piano, for the general use and enjoyment of passers-by. At that time, I was filled to overflowing with such indescribable joy that I felt I had to do something with the waves of delight coursing through me. Accordingly, there being no one about and I being in the mood to infuse some of this happiness with creativity, I sat down at the piano and began to play.

I’ve worked very hard to polish my piano skills, you know–shaped and honed that talent for God’s glory for many, many years. That wasn’t always the case–I used to be decidedly legalistic about music, insisting that any creative interpretation went against Scripture, somehow, and playing hymns and only hymns with a stayed calmness, and even that with only one hand, plinking out single notes like a beginning piano student. I’ve learned better, though–learned to fashion this gift to glorify my Lord, and found that musical creativity and spontaneity can be an important part of the process.

Back to Sunday evening. I did begin with hymns–though not with a slow and clumsy rendering of a classic. No, ’twas “Arise, My Soul, Arise” for me and my faithful instrument. I began by playing it traditionally, but then decided to take a few liberties–playing certain parts more loudly in order to emphasis their theological importance to my heart, inserting a few notes that didn’t strictly belong in the hymn just to accentuate the glorious nature of what I was playing, allowing my piano to do the exclaiming I was as yet not quite bold enough to do verbally. I tell you, if that piano could speak, it would have been crying out, “HALLELUJAH!” after every second line or so. Not perfect, not polished, not traditional–but so very necessary. From there, I transitioned–not so gracefully, I must admit–into “Sunshine in My Soul”. The segue was supposed to be seamless–in fact, had I been paying any attention at all, it would have been–but as it was, the whole thing was a bit clunky and uneven, with a few sour notes spoiling the performance, if I chose to call it that. But I don’t, for the only One for whom I was playing doesn’t really care whether I play a wrong note or two, just that I use the gifts He has given me to honor Him.

So, yes… “Sunshine in My Soul”. This is a difficult song to sing, let alone play, and there wasn’t a hymnal in sight. I cared not. I plunged forward anyway, making a few mistakes but so magnificently filled with joy that little timing errors and a few flat notes didn’t matter. Then, more songs. By this time, a few people had stopped to listen, some even sitting down to absorb the impromptu concert. I was too busy worshiping the Lord to pay them anything more than a cursory glance. Neither did I pay much attention to fitting tempo with tempo. Everyone knows that a slow worship ballad like “Jesus, Name Above All Names” shouldn’t be immediately followed up by something driving and exuberant like “Days of Elijah”–the effect would be too jarring. Ah, but I did it! By this time, polish and convention were both slipping through my fingers, which were too busy dancing over piano keys to grasp hold of societal norms. “This is the Day”. “Clap your hands, all ye people, shout unto God with the voice of triumph…”. “I Want to Be Where You Are”. “Shout to the Lord, all the earth, let us sing…”. “Here We Are in Your Presence”. “In Your presence, that’s where I am strong; in Your presence, O Lord my God…”. At some intervals, I was doing the kind of note-to-note glissando that is really much more effective on the harp; at others, I know I must have sounded a little like Keith Green, the way he used to pound those keys like an old-fashioned typewriter–although, unlike Keith, I really don’t have the training to pull that kind of playing off, nor the wherewithal to know when to use it. At some points, there really was one-handed playing, or long pauses when there wasn’t any music at all because I was raising my hands before the Lord…

This was a public piano, but there really wasn’t much going on that evening. A few people, as I said, had stopped to listen. Others would stop and stare, or avert their eyes–either because they sensed that what I was doing was semi-private or because they didn’t know how to handle it. I just played on. I had to do this; it was the only means of expressing myself for miles around, since I’m not nearly as good at expressing those same thoughts verbally. The Lord is still working with me on being a bit bolder in that area… So, all I had at that moment was the piano and a small group of curious onlookers. On I played, and probably sang, too–though I don’t remember clearly–until I was absolutely spent. Until a few hours had passed and my fingers, which had not played in a few months, could not stretch toward even one more key. And then, exhausted but so deeply, deeply satisfied, I got up and walked away, clothed in purest peace but leaving my observers without any explanation.

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Now, my precious readers, you’re all intelligent enough to know that the actual incident didn’t really happen. No public piano, no flawed and enthusiastic playing, no curious onlookers. Instead…

Last Sunday evening, I was, indeed, filled with joy inexpressible. I really am terrible at communicating some of my thoughts on the things of the Lord–which is why I write a blog rather than putting together a podcast! But that day’s delight in Jesus was so complete that I felt I had to do something. And so I wrote. I wrote without polish and certainly without any semblance of perfection, at times with gentle notes of worship and at times with rollicking notes of praise. Really, I’m not even sure I ran spellcheck that day. I just went back and tried to read the post, but I’m downright embarrassed by certain elements of it and couldn’t finish the thing.

But, do you know something? I’m going to let it stay. I will not delete that post simply because it was disjointed and made little sense. I know what I meant and I will keep that piece of disconnected writing as a tribute to a very special moment in my spiritual life. That was a private moment of worship–hence, the lack of convention–in a very public blog setting.

But why didn’t I confine that piece to my journal? Why put something out there if it isn’t perfect? Because, dear readers–and this goes back to writing philosophy established immediately after I received the Holy Spirit–writing really isn’t worth anything unless there is the possibility of having it read. Besides, I’m terrible at journaling–so caught up am I in the writing process itself that I can never put my true feelings on paper, so I have to make audio recordings of personal journal entries and house them on my iPod. No, if I’m to write, I must make it public. A unique ideology, I know, but it works for me.

Besides–and this may be a difficult concept to explain–perhaps that flawed post will actually be used by God, somehow. The writing I did on 16 February did resemble a jagged and broken alabaster box–no doubt about it. But perhaps someday, many years from now, someone will stumble upon it who has, like me, felt inhibited in worship at one time or another. Perhaps s/he will see that post and apply it to some other form of worship, will learn a little more boldness in the Lord and will be inspired to praise Him in some special way. Perhaps…

Now, please be aware that this post is not in any way designed to be a defense of last week’s post. I simply use the events of last week as a rather prominent example of a general philosophy. So, as briefly as I can, this is what writing means to me–why I do it, and how it relates specifically to this blog:

I. Writing: It is a form of worship–perhaps because, in sad truth, I really never did learn a musical instrument. So, a computer keyboard takes the place of an acoustical keyboard.

II. Syntax: Why do I write the way I do? It began in grade school, when I discovered that there was no way whatsoever to customize Braille; while other students practiced their penmanship, I sat making endless F’s and D’s and J’s and H’s–all letters that appear very similar in Braille–and determined that my syntax must do double duty as my voice and my handwriting. I shaped and molded it accordingly, complete with frequent British spellings and dates. Then, after I received the Holy Spirit, I really did become quite legalistic. Where I got the notion, I don’t know, but I do know that for three-and-a-half years I refused to use any vocabulary that couldn’t be found somewhere in some English version of the Bible. I didn’t use King James wording, though I could have if I had wanted to, but I did use wording from the NIV and NKJV extensively, and refused to incorporate either details or literary devices that weren’t found somewhere in Scripture. Never did I write about, say, the spaghetti I had enjoyed some evening and then connect it to a special event; instead, I mentioned “the evening meal”, if even that, and moved on, humiliated that I couldn’t find a more Scriptural way of talking about such a horribly mundane matter. And to think that I could have related my activities to my life in the Lord, without any form of legalism! Later, however, a few things happened in rapid succession–first, I joined a class whose instructor pushed me beyond that idea; then, Hannah received the Holy Spirit and maintained all the qualities I had admired in her prior to her renewed love for Jesus leading me to believe that, if she hadn’t lost her creativity, neither should I; and I did a little searching of the Scriptures and found that, as far as I could tell, attempts to improve one’s writing or singing or harp-playing or sculpting were not a sin! Armed with this new and beautiful knowledge, I worked on writing, crafting words and stringing them together like beads until I had something that I knew could glorify God if I chose to use it for that purpose. Why use it for anything else?

III. Sharing Policy: Writing is meant to be read. I’ve touched on this, but I thought I would reiterate it here–writing means much more to me if there is the POSSIBILITY of it being read. I don’t need the guarantee, just the possibility–perhaps because failing to share writing almost feels like hiding my light under a bushel.

IV. Blogging and Other Social Networks: If I’m so emphatic about sharing my writing, why am I not promoting Like a Weaned Child right and left? Well, my precious readers, it’s a delicate balance. My job is to put the words where they can be seen, but doing anything more than that is not at all right. No, God will bring to each post the people whom He wants to see it, be they many or few. I mean that with all my heart. My writing is the Lord’s; He gave me the idea for this site, and He will do with it what He wills. The same policy applies to my failure to spice the blog up with a different layout, pictures, music, etc. It seems that it would be a ministry tool with or without the multimedia experience, so keeping things status quo seems easiest at the moment. Besides, it goes along with my purpose (see below).

V. Blogging and Reciprocation: Is this, then, why I “don’t read any other blogs”? Ah, but you are mistaken if you think I don’t read your blog or any other, for that matter. The trouble is, I use JAWS for Windows, which is a screen-reading software package for people with visual disabilities. Now, JAWS theoretically reads all on-screen information, but the system isn’t perfect. Take “like” buttons on sites like WordPress. Unless I have sighted assistance every time I want to like a post, I have to read it and resort to LIKING it in my heart–which, if you ask me, is much better than merely pressing a little button, but then, you wouldn’t be able to relate to that since your blogs are the ones I can’t physically demonstrate enjoyment of. If I’ve found a post so magnificent that it has changed my entire outlook on life, I usually try to leave a comment. Consider your post thoroughly liked at that point!

VI. Length and Purpose: Back to posting in and of itself. I could write more briefly if I wanted to, but I seldom take that course because slow, careful, and often comprehensive writing teaches and reinforces something that I want all potential readers to know–quite often, especially in this harried cultures of ours and particularly as touches things of the Holy Spirit, it is important to slow down and rest. To throw off time constraints and busy schedules and just take time to worship. So, my lengthy writing–and even some of the shorter pieces–are penned that way deliberately in an attempt to get you to stop and smell the frankincense, myrrh, spikenard, lilies, and rain. Oh, and the roses, too.

VII. Joy and Peace: To that end, I have one hard and fast rule. I cannot, must not, will not write about anything blatantly unedifying unless there is a clear-cut purpose in it. I can describe in vivid detail the time when lab technicians tried repeatedly to access a vein in my hand until it felt as though the bones itself had become victims of some dreadful surgical operation, but ONLY IF I then describe the way in which a Christian CNA entered my room soon afterward and seemed to make everything right with the gentle love she demonstrated. Good Samaritan, who has only ever read one piece of writing but who knows me better than I know myself, has implored me to write about my experience in guide-dog training–the positive aspects, but mostly the challenging ones–because she says it will surely be cathartic. I will write the articles if the Lord wills, but they will only ever be used to frame trials in the light of His glory. So, know that, even if I do write something difficult, there is a purpose behind it–everything I write from here forward will be designed for encouragement rather than sorrow, even if pain or anxiety make an appearance.

So, that’s my writing philosophy. I can’t promise that I’ll never engage in a spontaneous worship session and then publish it for all to see–and I certainly can’t promise to warn my readers when I’m about to engage in such behaviour. I can commit to writing what I can in hopes of serving the Lord with what He has given me, and invite all of my beloved readers–whoever you may be–to come along for the ride.

This post should have been written last April–every good blogger needs a piece describing his or her writing philosophy, and preferably when s/he is just beginning the blog project. But what is the fun of beginning at the beginning? Isn’t starting in medias res much more enriching? Of course it is!–and so, for that matter, is a spontaneous allegory, and an even more unplanned “worship session” like the one I embarked upon last week. The spice of life, I say–the cinnamon and honey and other delightful spice of life!

Addendum: The title for this post is taken from Keith Green’s song, “Stained-Glass”. I encourage all my readers to find and enjoy this song, for it’s rather difficult to explain. Essentially, though, Keith compares our lives in the Lord to stained-glass windows, beautiful to behold when the Holy Spirit shines through us. That is who I want to be–both in writing and in day-to-day life. The tempo of the song is also reflective of the way I tend to write sometimes, upbeat and exuberant but with a purpose lingering beneath the layers of piano-driven percussion. Keith Green is the only musician I know whose piano sometimes did the job of a drum, but the effect was breath-taking. May I learn to glorify God in the same way, only with writing–and may my life be stained-glass through which the Lord shines with His brilliant, glorious light.

“This Is How It Feels to Be Free!”

My beloved readers, I wrote this without polish, and mine was almost a deliberate decision. I’m afraid it might not make terribly much sense, but I felt I had to write it anyway. Make what you can of it, for it is my heart, and relegate the rest to the “unique-posts-I’ve-read” section of your mind. God bless!

And now, my beloved readers, for something entirely detached from anything you’ve read recently on this blog. And–oh!–what joy and delight it gives me to be able to write it!

Today, for this post and in this moment, you don’t need an introduction. There is no need to elaborate on those parts of my life that had hitherto felt as though they were crashing down in heaps, burying beneath the rubble all that I had ever called hope and love and grace. There is no need to discuss the ways in which all the collective Marthas I had ever known were grasping hold of my wrists and attempting to drag me away from my place worshiping at the feet of Jesus–nor, really, is there any need to discuss the myriad ways in which I felt that His assurances about worshipers having chosen “the better part, which shall not be taken away from [them! Mary of Bethany! My heart!]”–no need to state that that quote had provided even me with less solace than at other times.

No, this is to be a piece disconnected from all of that. Instead, let’s focus on a words sketch of sorts.

The two pillows flanking the plush velvet chair-and-a-half provide renewed comfort and have retained their fragrance of newness even two months after I received them. In the next room, Naomi is embarking on a joyful project that fills this once-shriveled heart with exuberance. I am assured in this moment of the safety of all my loved-ones. Awaiting my use whenever I decide to splurge on luxury is a set of crisp, lavender-coloured, fine-linen sheets that always put me in mind of Psalm 139–but that’s another story. Ten minutes currently lie between me and Dennis Jernigan’s music, Communion elements, and the book of Galatians. The soothing hum of the vaporizer–essential in this inhumid moment–will provide gentle background for worship activities, but will inevitably be almost swallowed up in the peace-filled silence that characterizes the rest of the house. From the next room, a new clock will play “Amazing Grace” at the top of the hour, effectively putting me in mind of what the Lord did in my heart last night and the miracle He wrought today in a situation that seemed almost beyond restoration. Today, and tomorrow, and next month, and throughout 2015-1020, if the Lord wills, I will be able to rejoice in the creativity and uniqueness that He has given me, gently detaching myself from those who are “distracted with much serving” and focusing on the “one thing [that is] really needful” without fear. Tomorrow will be a pure, unalloyed celebration such as I have not experienced in months–an amalgomation of a few anniversaries including the day on which I got my guide-dog, the day on which the Lord Jesus taught me anew about His grace, and the day on which He led me gently out of the second-darkest valley through which I had ever walked. There will be festive amounts of lace on skirts and blouses, an elaborate gourmet lunch, a once-in-a-year dish incorporating copious amounts of portabello mushrooms for dinner, the most sentimentally-associated strawberry shortcake for dessert, seldom-indulged-in toys and treats for Natasha, the potential for a beautiful outing, work sessions that we will first sanctify before the Lord, moments of touching others’ lives with the same love I have received… Oh, it will be glorious!

“This is how it feels to be free. / This is what it is to know that I am forgiven!”

ADDENDUM: Unless the plagiarism police come after me, I’m not telling where I found that song because I want every last one of my readers to go and look it up, and that will be easier to do if you just stumble upon it. Besides, the version filling my heart didn’t come about under the direction of one Jim Cymbala (BIG HINT!), but under the leadership of the choir at one of the Victory churches I attended many years ago. Take THAT, Conventionality!

“After The Last Tear Falls… There Is Love”

NOTE: I realize that the following post is likely to be a bit disjointed. I’m going to write it, then publish it without much editing save for a quick run-through of the spellchecker. I’m writing in the moment today, rather than waiting for the storms in my heart to pass and for the seas to become calm again. Time and again, but particularly in I and II Corinthians, we are told that God is glorified in weakness–often much more than in man’s strength. Accordingly, I’m writing this while all the broken pieces are still on the ground in hopes that you will be able to see a mosaic pattern in those multi-colored chips and shards. I will sweep up later, and we will all be back to polished writing–guides for how to cope with times of grief, brief reviews and words sketches, treatises on the Holy Spirit… But for now, look at the pieces and imagine–oh, imagine!–how the only Healer will be able to glue them all back together as though they were never shattered.

For the moment, though, shattered is the only way to describe the condition of my heart. The past several months have been exceedingly difficult–not internally, as in that valley following my guide-dog training, but externally. Just as there is a difference between a stomachache with no discernible cause and one brought about because some bully punched you in the stomach, so I believe that there is a difference between internally- and externally-initiated heartache. Many of the reasons for the past few months of suffering are too personal and involve people who may not want their own challenges shared, but suffice it to say that, considering only the difficulties without their implications, they are really rather mundane. Not very difficult at all, in the scope of eternity. However, there were, in fact, other implications–emotional ones. And so, I and many others around me have been deeply, deeply stressed. I’ve been taking the physical trials in stride, but have found it difficult to cope with the pain I see around me and have, by the same token, felt it my responsibility to do something about it. I’ve always said facetiously that I felt responsible for world hunger–now, those comments seem less light-hearted. I feel responsible for feeding others spiritually when I am allowing myself to go without the Bread of Life.

Then, there have been the medical challenges in my own life. I haven’t been ill–just… quirky. Little things like slight climbs or drops in INR levels, unexplained headaches, explainable but no-less-inconvenient muscle aches, a slight allergic reaction to some chemical or other, deep emotional and physical weariness… To you, even if you were on Coumadin, these would probably all be relatively insignificant. However, you must keep in mind that my life was once filled with such medical trauma that nothing, from a paper cut onward, is trivial or insignificant–irrelevant to my body, perhaps, but not to my heart. And so, I have spent many sleepless nights monitoring health crises that never really existed, but that filled me with fear and dread nevertheless.

Where was my love for God in all of this? You ask. Ever and always present, but I had long since closed the door on the possibility of prayer. Not from doubt or anger, but from pain. You see, I had taken it upon myself to stand strong and unwavering in the midst of all of this. I understand that a broken heart and a crushed spirit are not sins, but I felt that those around me needed me to be emotionless, stronger than I really was and without reaction no matter what. My great fear: If I talked to God, I might begin crying and not be able to stop. If I didn’t lock my heart, mind, and spirit up in a heavy, carved wooden box and allow everyone else to see only the engravings on the box’s top, the very fragile person I had become might break altogether, and I would be displeasing those who needed me to be strong. And, this slippery-slope thinking maintained, if I displeased other believers, I would also be displeasing God. So, a brief worship song here and there, a quick prayer of thanks, but no real supplication and no pure trust or reliance on the Lord for help. Just a temporary dormancy.

Fellow Christians, my brothers and sisters, this is never, never a good idea. My advice, and all I have for you this evening, is that you must rely on God, no matter what. You are not strong without Him and never will be. I’m certainly not.

I learned this the hard way today and yesterday. Last night, I did ask the Lord for help–but mostly for others, and mostly without hope or heart behind that request. Oh, I had faith that the Lord would restore the entire messy situation in which we had found ourselves eventually, but I refused to dwell even on that hope extended to me, and I’m afraid that my reading last night of I Peter was with my intellect more than with the love, joy, and wisdom God has given me in understanding His Word. The consequence: Today was just as difficult as the past few months have been. The same things I’ve mentioned earlier, only now much heavier upon my heart because–learn a lesson from me!–burdens not brought to the foot of the cross only become heavier the longer you bear them.

Then, this afternoon, something happened that did threaten to shatter the fragile vessel named Ready-Writer. And all those broken pieces were unexpectedly, mercifully, gathered into the healing hands of Jesus. Up until now, I had endured everything thrown at me–not perfectly, but with as much grace as the Lord gave me from moment to moment. This afternoon, one of the enemy’s fiery darts grazed my spiritual life in and of itself. Detail-oriented though I am, I’m not sure it would be edifying to describe what happened except to say that I felt that I was being rebuked and for something I didn’t feel I had done wrong. The situation has been thoroughly discussed, and understandings have been reached on both sides–forgiveness, joy, peace, love, a deep sense of Agape in this dyad that comprises part of the Body of Christ.

Even following that discussion, though, I was in agonizing turmoil–not because I had failed to forgive the party I had wronged, but because I was finding it so difficult to forgive myself. If God wasn’t displeased with me before, I thought, surely He was displeased with me now. For a solid three hours, I could not fathom grace deep enough to salve this wound, heal the pain, or retrieve this cast sheep–this creation of the Good Shepherd who had nevertheless rolled over in a hollow place and now found herself on her back, terrified and with no way of helping herself upright again. (See Phillip W. Keller’s excellent book, A SHEPHERD LOOKS AT PSALM 23, for more on this analogy–particularly Ch. 4).

What educed me to seek the Lord anyway, I cannot explain save to say that it must have been the Holy Spirit. Even then, it was not to the book of James that I turned but to a series of fourteen ballad-like songs by Nichole Nordeman, a beautiful Christian songwriter whose words about the holiness of our Creator and giving thanks even during difficult circumstances have always helped me in the past. The Spiritual Hot Bath, I call it, because those songs are warm, soothing balm. And, as I assumed might be the case, the tears and anguish I had so feared even before the Lord came pouring down. But–don’t you know?–there was a comfort there, too. A knowledge that, despite the driving rain and hurricane winds, my house would stand firm because it was built upon the Rock. The Spiritual Hot Bath concluded with Andrew Peterson’s song, “There Is Love”. Readers of my other posts, you had no idea I ever listened to Nichole Nordeman or Andrew Peterson–did you? Now, you know! But only when my heart is too torn for Don Moen or Marty Nystrom, which goes to show you the state in which I found myself. Anyway, “There Is Love” catalogues all the suffering that we sometimes go through, always concluding that the Lord loves us and always will and that we will eventually–in a few years? in heaven? it is up to interpretation–look back on these tears we’ve shed as nothing compared with His goodness.

Many of my readers will ask whether I feel that God caused that difficulty–that proverbial last straw–today. No, no, and no! However, I know that the Lord does use ALL things for His good and His glory. Today, He used my absolute desperation to emphatically show me my need for Him in day-to-day life, my utter helplessness without His constant guidance, love, and comfort. We see this, to some extent, in John 11. When Jesus heard that Lazarus was ill, He could have gone to Bethany immediately; in fact, being the Son of God and knowing all things, He could have come before Mary and Martha even sent for Him. He didn’t, though. He did not visit Mary and Martha until Lazarus had already been dead for four days. This was to show His glory, and to show His glory in a way that left no doubt in the minds of many that He is the Messiah. Would He have been glorified in the same way if Lazarus’ illness or death had been prevented? Was not His miracle of raising Lazarus to life again far greater? So, too, God will use this–all of it. Every tear and every moment of standing in spite of sorrow will e used to glorify Him in ways that a month filled with sunshine might not. As I’ve said, I’m not intimating that the past months were God’ will–only that He, in His sovereignty, USED today for His glory, to teach me lessons I had hitherto failed to learn–lessons of prayer and love, of trust and mercy and faith.

Am I now filled with joy? Did the trials disappear? Is everything restored, back to the way it was in 2004? Not quite. But I now know this–that Jesus loves me, and that that is enough for the moment. Enough always, but especially in this moment. When I would not unlock that antique wooden box for the One Who owns it, He Himself used the key–for He had it all along–to lift that lid, push aside all the superficial strength with which I had tried to insulate my battered heart, and carefully remove all the brokenness, shard by shard and splinter by splinter. And if I know the One Who sculpted this clay vessel in the first place, I know what He will do–though I don’t know when. Since I’m not a fired and glazed vessel and won’t be until I get to heaven, He will take this bone-dry clay and water it until it becomes leather-hard; then, He will water it some more until it becomes pliable. He will put it on the potter’s wheel and make something new and beautiful of what I thought just three hours ago couldn’t be restored. I don’t know when, I don’t know how, and I don’t know what the actual end result will look like, but I do know now with absolute clarity that He will make all things beautiful in His time. Now again, the faith and hope that I thought had faded are mine. And, ever and always, “There Is Love”.