“But blessed is the man who trusts me, God, the woman who sticks with God. They’re like trees replanted in Eden, putting down roots near the rivers— Never a worry through the hottest of summers, never dropping a leaf, Serene and calm through droughts, bearing fresh fruit every season.” – Jeremiah 17:7-8 MSG
There’s a constant in the chaos. A forever “newness” like replanted trees. Scripture gushes about a stream that never runs dry. A garden that won’t die. No matter how much I’m loved, I always wonder if I’m kneeling at a tapped out well. But, no matter how far I wander, the Garden ever follows.
A person can’t wither because the water line always rises. The healing waters make him forget the crippling sickness that curled him over. Waiting eleven years for an invitation, eleven years for a conversation, eleven years of maturation. The suit is tattered, the shoes are torn, the weather conditioned what the traveler’s worn. But, hope is a tidy box of well used and meticulously cared for pocket squares in a tin that’s rusting.
The child built her faith until she was a weeble wobble adult. The invisible friend with an annoyingly perpetual optimism. No matter how hard the hits, the faith would pull her up. Blessed is the woman who sticks with God.
Defiant against odds. Resistant, obstinate, noncompliant against the push backs and the stink eyes, and the self-interested heel turns. The roots dig deeper, soaking up the water. The heat pulses through the branches, but the leaves are not threatened. Feast and famine, panic and rest, the girl with the iron faith still withstands the test.