Sometimes it rains and parts of you wonder about heaven. And you push your face up to the window pane to watch the water and see your breath reflected in the glass.

Now we see but a poor reflection as in a mirror; then we shall see face to face. Now I know in part; then I shall know fully, even as I am fully known. 1 Corn 13:12.

I feel the damp at the fringes of my pants, where feet walked through puddles to scoop up the kitchen toys the boys had left outside. Pete says we can buy new ones if these old ones flake away, their wood all wet through from days outside and fall storms.

But they are a treasure to me. I bought each set lovingly over these last years since Jackson moved from three to six and lost interest in play food and kitchens. But a Zoe girl has come into my heart and my arms and I can close my eyes and imagine her chubby hands holding little blue pots and pans and pretending she’s cooking with me. Me the mom who’s no great cook. But who loves food.

So I kneel there in the wet hedge and scoop up the forgotten slices of wooden pizza, the chopped up bit of carrot, the little silver pots and pans just the right size for miniature hands. They’ve been keeping the dump trucks and diggers company – a yard littered with the imagination of boys.

I wipe them off. Bring them onto the deck. Shake off my frustration at boys who run to fast at life to remember yesterday’s games.

Zoe is six months old. Tomorrow she will be two. How will I bear it? This passing of time and life and all those wet slobbery kisses she gives now as she grabs handfuls of my hair and drags my face toward her own.

My friend Sara is dying. So is Pete’s grandmother. And there’s a baby in South Africa whose life my parents are fighting for.

The day weeps rain and I sit with wet pant legs and watch it through the window.

Weeping may last through the night, but joy comes with the morning. Ps 30:5

They tell me this is true. And I choose to believe it.

Because without belief there’s just the wet and the damp and the nothing. No sense, no reason, no hope. Just a river of tears. But I believe and so I also understand. Because rain is not the end of the story – it brings growth– the bulbs, the seeds, the roots and the new life.

It’s all happening right there outside my window. Water pouring life into the ground so that things I can’t see might grow.

I believe.

I ache. My feet are wet and cold. The forecast is for more rain.

But I believe.

So we fix our eyes not on what is seen, but on what is unseen. For what is seen is temporary, but what is unseen is eternal. 2 Corn 4:18.

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A time to weep and a time to dance

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