Restoring the years of the locusts. What beautiful words. Restore -- what hope. It makes me think of fallen, broken pieces, tenderly gathered and nurtured back together with tender, loving hands molding each piece into new form, gently, carefully, graciously.
I look over the last two years with wonder, with rest. I see the broken; I am the broken. But now I see new hands. Big, strong, Father hands. I see the Potter, I feel my heart of clay. Wounded and weary, now massaged to be anew. Believing.
I see the years the locusts have taken. But now, I also see restored. I see friends and family gathered near, around me in Grand Rapids, alongside me in Charlotte. I taste the freshness of food, of the flavor of life cooked over my stove and shared in the fullness of love at my table. I listen to encouragement and gather hugs of church women. I greet smiles of students, and fill with giddy excitement. I lay in the crest of a man, his arms with mine; we hold. I linger for hours with friends, life our conversation, language like love we share.
He has restored to me the years the locusts have taken. He is restoring me. I am a heart full. I am a woman loved. I am a believer blessed. I am restored.
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