There's Nothing but Rain Outside

It seems like there's nothing but rain outside. It comes and goes. Its a downpour one moment and then lightens to a soft but steady rain fall the next. A gust of wind sways the trees back and forth in what seems like a tango between nature and breeze. In another moment not even the blades of grass seem to be wavering from side to side. Not even the blades of grass are lightly singing with the conducting of the wind's soft chorus. Whether or not the rain is coming down in a brutle battle against the soft earth or if it is merely saying a polite hello to the blacken tar of the road. The ground is still wet. The humid air around still manages to rage its power against those who walk in it. No matter how hard that girl may try, those ballet flats that appear to float underneath her flattened arches are still soaked, the bottom of her well worn jeans will still not escape the elements of water and dirt. Her hair is a mess that matts itself against her tear-stained cheeks. The water running down the rosy colored skin cannot be seperated between tears and rain. It seems to be all the same. The brokenness and choas that is felt within her beating chest cannot be seperated from the wind raging against her frail body. It seems to be all the same. She cannot tell if her shaking hands are out of control because of the light chill in the air or if its the chill that rests on her shoulder that has made its way down to her other extremeties. All around her, there's nothing but rain outside. The hew of the world is all in grayscale. There is no rainbow to follow this storm as the clouds cover all hope that the sun may still come out for the day. She thought maybe if she gets in her proverbial car she could drive away to a place where the sun shines. But the only thing that sits in her driveway is a battered scooter, not much different from her battered soul. Maybe she could buy a plane ticket to a distant world and land. A place where the rain doesn't fall. But a depleted savings account is constantly being drained for the next necessary expense. Even if she walks inside the well lit and heated room the elements have little mercy. The rain is still visible inside her physical refuge. She remembers the black umbrella stuffed away in her bag. A last minute thought compelled her to grab it before she ran out the door. It lights a soft glow within her sulken face. As she opens it, she quickly realizes that it is missing the tiniest, yet most important piece that keeps it open. She struggles, but manages to keep it open as she walks through puddle upon puddle. No matter how hard she tries to dodge the open waters, she cannot stay dry. Step after step she trudges. The umbrella becomes more of a nuisance than convenience as the wind gusts grow stronger. She wants to give up. She wants to find a bench, the one that has been removed, to sit and give up. No umbrella, no concern for her tangled hair or running mascara, or clothes soaked through, or her pruning hands, or goosebumped arms, or sunken heart. All she feels is numbness. Maybe its her brain shutting down her inner and outer feeling in order to keep her from the full effect of her breaking heart. Maybe its her brain shutting down the senses in her skin to keep it from hurting due to the stinging rain. Regardless, her chest slowly moves up and down, tears welled up in her brown doe eyes. This was suppose to be a beautiful place. She planned her trip well, sought council, did her research, and encouraged those along the way. It isn't suppose to be like this. How did she end up here? The rain was suppose to fall somewhere else. In a place far away from this one. All the other people have travelled to some place different. He didn't want to go through this storm either. So he hopped in his car that could handle the most harsh conditions and drove away. He was confident that someone else would come along to keep her dry. Someone else would pick up the pieces of that shattered girl. Truly she wasn't alone. Truly he didn't leave her alone. Strangers in their rain gear walk by and smile at the saddened girl. But she doesn't want any of them. She manages a crooked smile to appease their valient efforts to make her laugh in the way that he did. She manages a little giggle and even a soft glow returns to glaze her golden teary eyes. But it quickly fades. She lets go of the strangers' hands and drifts slowly to the back of the crowd. She shakes and quivers, her strong posture droops. Her knees become weak, not because of his soft kiss this time, but because her broken heart can no longer support the blood flow. She sits on the ground. She stops. She has no choice. The looming cloud of life's abundant troubles follow only her. She will just have to wait. Maybe the rain will subside, maybe he will come back to help take her hand and walk her to the end of this troubled place. Maybe the maker will complete her bruised and cracked heart, and maybe he will come to her and push her hair aside. Maybe that He will wipe every tear and pick up his fallen lamb. Cast her over his shoulder and take her to the hill of safety. She can't think in terms of maybes and what ifs and empty hopes and vain words. This drained lamb must believe that her shepherd will find her in this mess of a situation. He is looking for her. He will scoop her up in her broken state and worn down soul and will bring rest to her. He will not leave her in this. His word doesn't return void. Oh God, my God I cry out, your beloved needs you now.

Century Tower

Went to class this morning and was going to be on time, but then there was a note on the board. Professor Wright will be here for the 2nd hour of class. Well then, thats my exit. On that note, I walk to the nearest library where I feel like I spent 90% of my freshmen year of college, which granted is probably an overexaggeration. Where do I find myself on this beautiful morning? Sitting on the third floor, eating jello with my headphones on and my Bible out facing a window that overlooks the greenest trees and the highest point on campus, Century Tower. Mornings have been tough lately, even this one, but at the same time I forget how much I like mornings. They are a brand new day to be lived out, God's mercies are new every morning. It is one more day that God grants me the opportunity to laugh, mourn, smile, and weep. Mornings are a fresh start to our battered and bruised lives. They can be difficult at times, sometimes we are tired, sometimes we don't want to do life that day, sometimes we know we have more to do than we have time for. Sometimes we dread how the day may go or how it won't go. But when the morning comes, regardless of if we are ready for it or not, it means there is still hope. It means that life does go on. That we will all be okay. That life will all be okay in time. Hemmingway took inspiration from Solomon. The Sun also rises. It sets, it goes away for a time. Darkness floods the earth, but the sun also rises.

I wake every morning and roll out of bed. Some days you can clearly see this in my crazy hair or half done make-up job. But I also wake up and listen to Your Love is Strong. God's love is strong for me. "For my father and mother have forsaken me, but the Lord will take me in" (David, Psalm 27:10). Regardless of how we may feel abandoned. Maybe even by God sometimes. We can be confident that God has indeed not left our side. Jesus has already made his commitment to us and He doesn't plan on leaving us. His love is strong. His love is strong. His love is strong. We must believe and have faith, regardless of how we feel in the present moment of our lives, that Jesus is the greatest love we will ever know. There is nothing deeper, nothing greater, nothing more spectacular, nothing more true. We have to believe that. I must believe that. Be faithful even when you don't feel like it. Be faithful even when you may be slightly unsure of the outcome. Get up in the morning. Even when thats the last thing you want to do. You see, Now I have found the greatest love of all. Good morning Jesus.

A.M