Come to Me

I wait as she rises from the darkness at dawn, shaking off night’s debris. She never forces her way in, she has traveled the distance and knows steadiness.

She seems to sense that I can only take her presence in slowly, sometimes imperceptibly, until she can crack the darkness she knows within me—around me and before me. Then, through the broken crack of my shell, she enters.

Storms descend—those unprepared for, ill-equipped for, unexpected downpours. Winds assail and I react. She waits for them to pass, staring on from her seat not too far off, then draws attention to what’s hidden from most eyes.

I marvel as she can make what seems insignificant appear like jewels in a rough setting. What has been cast aside, she reshapes and remolds once again.

I couldn’t begin to explain what she was like until I realized I was asking the wrong question. It is not what she is but who she is.

What we are is ever-changing. Who we are has existed from before time and will forever be beloved.

Beloved Joy. She comes in the morning after a double fortnight of despairing. Though subdued by the clouds of day, she bursts through with layers and layers of color, flashing hope for what she knows is about to emerge.

I wonder if that’s how God sees us. Clouded by the separation we would have from Him; yet layered in the radiance He always sees about to emerge.

When she departs, night descends once again. But though the darkest, starless night sits beside her, she says, Do to fear.

She will return, and bring with her the beauty she found in the shadows of your tears. She is—even in her distance—ever near, never changing. She is Joy.

Photo by Mohamed Nohassi 

Weeping may endure for a night, but joy cometh in the morning. (Psalm 30:5)