It’s Saturday, slow-paced, glazed with clouds and cool temperatures. I’m on my back porch, refusing to make lunch. We woke late, meaning we should eat late. The logic is there. I’m listening to it.
I’m thinking about holes. This month was full of them. One hole accidentally made in a wall uncovered years of water damage in our child’s room. Another marks the end of a core relationship. Not everyone wants reconciliation. They chose to walk away, leaving a hole behind.
Holes are everywhere. Holes in my home, holes in my yard (Thanks Mole), holes in my heart that need filling, repair, healing, and hope. This morning, I wrote the following in my journal:
“… I’m here. Tired. Crying. Empty. Hopeful – you can never take hope from me, but I am done for the day.”09/07/19
The hope surprised me. I am full of it. My hands feel empty. My body feels raw. But, my heart, dang it, is full of the stuff.
On my right, I notice a birdhouse hanging from our fence. It too has a hole. The house is empty. Except, its emptiness speaks of a future. It has a purpose. One day, a tiny bird will stake its claim, raise a family, fill it with joy, leave, and another bird will take its place. The hole is an open door for life to enter.
Maybe I can be the same.
Maybe this explains the hope.
Jesus is not afraid of holes. He sees them differently: opportunities for life, full of purpose. Neither useless or meaningless, they are transformed into something completely new.
I think of other holes – holes in trees where I would hide things as a child, donut holes, holes made by monarch caterpillars in my milkweed on their way to transformation. “I’ve got a hole in me pocket!” said a Beatle in the movie The Yellow Submarine. Caves deep in the earth that hold treasures and creatures and pure, pure magic.
Then, there are scars. Scars always carry a story with them. I think of the Grand Canyon, its ache stretching for miles. The scar on my child’s leg when they ran to the car and fell on the way after a five-mile hike. The stretch marks lining my stomach, mapping out my story of motherhood.
None of it is meaningless. The holes, the scars, the stretch marks, the stories – they all bear witness and pay homage to the life we’ve lived and the life yet to come.
So, I’m here. I don’t know what today will bring. I fill my mug-shaped hole with coffee and lift it up to Hope. And, to you, my friend. You probably have some holes yourself. I pay tribute to you, where you are, the holes in your life…
…and the life that is headed your way.