I started this post two nights ago, and when it was all said and done, I hated it. Too cliche. But, I'm battling the need to write and post in spite of my misgivings. Just get it done versus making it just right. Risk creating the mediocre until something more extraordinary comes along.
With a crack of hardened flesh they awaken from their short slumber, unfurl and stretch. Then rest comes for a while, waiting for wings to form just the right arch for flight.
We discovered them huddled together on common ground in their brilliant new clothes. Dull asphalt transformed into canvas for a most extraordinary art. We were caught up in wonder by their design. By their presence. By their flight that defies the earthbound life they knew only days, hours before.
How I ache for beauty. To be beauty. To be the end product of His fashioning me into His likeness. But, there are days that I can only see the grave clothes, the twisted, hardened shell of the flesh. And I let my old dead image govern my living until I go to the mirror and read that the hope of restoration, of my remaking isn't just for my tomorrow, some far off revealing. It is for my today. He walked out of that tomb, leaving behind the grave clothes so that I may live wearing His glorious Easter attire year round. So that I can leave my dead weight behind, can defy my flesh bound life of old, and fly into His arms.