It’s amazing how so much that took so long to grow and make can be so utterly destroyed in an hour’s time.
Jay walks about the yard, surveying the damage. All—broken, stripped, flattened before the water and hail—2 days before the children and grandchildren start coming home.
Just when you want something to work out, it doesn’t. And no matter how we hope, we pray, we wish on every star—it just isn’t going to happen. It lies destroyed like soppy green leaves that’ll never turn sun to life again.
It’s time to come home—
Jay, heavy stepping, comes in. “The hostas are shredded. It’ll be a wonder if they’ll even live.”
Do you wonder about living? Do you wonder if you’ll even live—
There will be no grape juice-making this fall. But those deeply rooted vines will put out more leaves.
That old vine has withstood hailstorms before.
By July, though mainly grapeless, there will be broad leaves shading the patio—
Roots deep, it’ll draw strength, branches spread out before a warming sun.
It will bear fruit as before. I know it. I have seen it.
And though we’re heartsick this day—
Though it won’t be like we planned or hoped—
It’s still good to come home.
Home to Love—like a tree planted by the Waters—the waters of the Word that grow us deep, that makes new leaves to cover an old patio over again.
And there will be fruit, good fruit, because God is working good.
Come home—and find rest.