The farmer clears the cow manure from the barn on a regular
basis, and he creates a mountain of manure along one of the paths we walk. As the
manure matures, a stinky sludge drains out of it, forming black burns and
puddles. There is nothing to commend it.
Left long enough, though, seeds take root in the fertile
hill. Seedlings appear: whether you call them wildflowers or weeds depends on
your perspective. I choose wildflowers
over weeds; I choose hope over despair.
Yesterday I took time and filled in my overseas ballot. This
morning I sent it back to Los Angeles, so that it will arrive in plenty of time
to be counted.
Even from a dung hill, a flower can grow.
May the God of hope fill you with all joy and peace as you
trust in him, so that you may overflow with hope by the power of the Holy
Spirit.
No comments:
Post a Comment