Today, I am thinking about the kind of beauty that rises like a phantom from ashes.
I see remnants of burned-out dreams and hopes scattered on a hillside, companions to blackened tree skeletons. I see ashes, lying there, still and dormant, yet flickering with invisible yearning.
I see ashes that secretly dare to believe: “When I sit in darkness, the Lord will be a light to me.” Micah 7:8a.
I’m thinking about those ashes hearing a whisper, their name on the breeze, suddenly alert in a pre-dawn chill.
And then, I see those ashes, disbelieving, hoping against hope: kneaded, formed, emerging into a mass: mocking the impossible, a coup of obscene dimensions.