There is a place of deepest pain that yields a most intimate spot in the soil of creation. A dark and loamy bed for a seed to rest easy; so miniscule the human eye must labor to see it.
But suddenly, there it is, growth under the surface of your fear and trepidation, watered by your tears He has faithfully collected in a bottle.
A dream is germinating.
Hope is preordained like a time capsule waiting to be opened; His fingernails filled with the dirt of your genetic predisposition, the only evidence.
Dreams are pushing through your doubts and questions, shedding the skin of spiritual youth in exchange for the cloak of wisdom. Obsessed with bravery over matters of prudence, your calling isn’t a naysayer but faithful and determined.
The tree of your life will bear branches for others to rest upon.
Despite what you wrongly assume is silence from the heavenlies, a seedling hatches from Abraham’s genetic microcosm into the ordinary suds of your kitchen sink.
A quaking of goodness is unleashing.
Sabbath is coming.
And welcome Monday as one tiny sprout toward your destiny.
He ordains your seasons and nothing is wasted, not even the compost heap of your failed endeavors.
Happy Sabbath from me to you.
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