As
I sit tucked in a rattan chair with a computer in my lap, the gentle touch of spring
billows around me. I count the days until Sunday. 4. Joanie’s due date, March
25th.
I fight back the tears
pressing into this new reality. The winter chill has melted. The blossoms are
beginning to bud. The maple leaves adorn the once barren branches of Chantry
Flats.
I
begin to dream a new dream. Where she and I grow wildly more beautiful and free
into our identity as daughters of the King. Where she and I embrace all we have
been made for, distance galaxies apart.
I
cry out of this joyous motherly home where all I can do is see her smiling with
her Father God. She is so happy. And this is all I see and all I know of her,
joy.
Yesterday
we descended down into the forest floor of Chantry Flats anticipating the maple
and oak tree planted in winter for Joanie. Our lungs filling up with the new
smells and sights of spring. Indian paintbrush. Baby blue-eyes. Rock rose. Rays
of sunlight shimmering off infant maple leaves. Ferns cascading into the meandering
creek. Tiny blossoms wrapped in time. Anticipating the warmth of spring.
It
was as though this world I had walked through 3 months ago, had opened up
before me into a new undiscovered place. The forest floor had been transformed by
the gentle touch of spring.
Smiling
from cheek to cheek this changing season giving way to new beauty, paralleling the new song in my heart. The words of the prophet Isaiah continued to sing over
me. Remember not the former things nor
consider the things of old. Behold I am doing a new thing; now it springs forth
do you not perceive it? I will make a may in the wilderness and rivers in the
desert (Isaiah 43:11).
What
was lying dormant from winter was now bursting with spring. It was springing
forth something new. And Father God had made a way for me. He had straightened
the path before me and girded my feet to walk. No longer was I bound by fear,
sorrow, and disappointment. I had been set free.
All
I knew in those 3 hours of revisiting the place of broken dreams, bleeding
hearts, and empty hands was how God makes all things new.
As
we began to scale the cliff to search for the oak tree, we
did not know what to expect. Would the harshness of winter and the eroded
mountainside leave the ground barren like my womb? Or would we discover a deep
rooting and more growth since winter?
Nothing
had encroached upon the tree, not even the sea of
weeds aggressively taking
over the mountainside. It was as though it had been protected and raised up
from all the rest. I knew the Lord was protecting us and protecting her. And
not only did we have His blessing of protection, but He had raised us up like a
child whose parent places them on their shoulders to get the best view.
The
Lord had raised me above my circumstances to see beyond the pain and suffering
into His heart of love, adoration, and good plans for my life. I knew Joanie
had this type of seat in heaven. Direct access to the Fathers heart.
Michael
rested the wildflowers upon the soil. Covering its roots where Joanie’s ashes
once laid, pink, orange, blue, and red petals. Telling of a greater story then
the one Satan had intended. For we are, crowned
with beauty instead of ashes, the oil of joy instead of mourning, and a garment
of praise instead of a spirit of despair (Isaiah 61:3).
Spring
would begin this new song of our hearts as we joined Joanie in this dance where
redemption meets royalty.
As
I began crying new tears of joy and no longer sorrow, a yellow butterfly soared
directly in eyes view, over our heads, above Joanie’s oak tree and into the
forest. The moment was so fragile it would have escaped us if we had not been
positioned right.
But
this butterfly meant so much more to me that day than the countless childhood
memories of chasing butterflies in the garden.
Today
it was a confirmation and testimony of Father God’s goodness. Less then a week
ago a young man from Belgium I had never met shared an image God had given him.
He saw a butterfly full of beauty and freedom.
I
was this butterfly.
And
so was Joanie.
