Isn't it ironic how when you write about something deep, good and life affirming that there is often something equally unwanted lurking nearby in the shadows, waiting to pounce when you are sat, resting in contentment. Fertile from years in the soil of emotional pain. Like a wily, cunning feline who always wants to play when you don't want to.
Feelings that are the antithesis to what you have carefully picked out from the fragments of a tired mind.
Not crafted as an artisan, but the raw materials are precious underneath.
Father You are the comforter.
You are there in the deep, precious rest that it brings
But you are also in the un-rest that springs, uninvited from an emotional root, although known, equally feels alien, when it presses down painfully.
Shoe pressing down on dog muck, which squelches and then lodges in every crevice of the sole. Spreading mess further to other places and noiselessly depositing the vile filthy smell and germs without invitation.
Sin clings in the cracks and cleaning it out is all the tedious and all the time consuming. But you Father are attendant to every last detail of the thankless task. Carefully cleansing and purifying every last scrap
The business You finished, with Love.
Nothing but the blood.