He restoreth my soul. Psalm 23:3
Is this not the most practical truth in the Bible? Stunningly simple. Hope.
The holy reboot.
Perhaps there are actually anchor people out there, deep and steady, no matter the swirling winds or crashing waves. But they are not I. Yes, yes, I know all about James and wisdom and faith and not wavering, for he that wavereth is like a wave of the sea driven with the wind and tossed. A double minded man is unstable in all his ways. Yep.
Discouragement, hurt, impatience, misunderstanding, unforgiveness. Yep, yep, yep. I can do them all. And yet something profound and merciful and good beyond all comprehension touches my soul, something beyond the “just need a good night’s sleep” counsel of my sensible husband. Restoration.
And this miracle, when considered, is more majestic that the towering Catalinas from whence comest my strength, and the spiraling galaxies and the pulsing cellular mechanics, but is part of the same story, the rhythms of the universe, the seasons.
And as we watch my poppa stumble through this very crinkly, crunching stage of autumn we are comforted by the gently swelling presence of his great-granddaughter, whose lively kicking and flipturns already demonstrate a spritely determined soul. Restoration.
Death into resurrection. New every morning, new every morning, great is Your faithfulness.
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