a whole month

I think that I shall never see
A poem lovely as a tree.

A tree whose hungry mouth is prest
Against the earth’s sweet flowing breast;

A tree that looks at God all day,
And lifts her leafy arms to pray;

A tree that may in Summer wear
A nest of robins in her hair;

Upon whose bosom snow has lain;
Who intimately lives with rain.

Poems are made by fools like me,
But only God can make a tree.

Trees
by Joyce Kilmer

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{{{Dear Reader,

Who can fathom the mind of the Almighty? Who can imagine the things He can use to reveal our hearts to ourselves?

It has been a few days since I’ve closed this little space of mine, and I have been impressed with a strange certainty that it ought to remain closed for a while more. If all of my past writings could be collectively regarded as a three-year-long narrative, then perhaps this temporary closure does¬†come across as a rather drastic and abrupt parenthetical pause in it – and with what shall this parenthesis be filled? What exactly I do not know, but I do know that the Almighty intends for it to be purposeful and needful, in order for the larger story of my life to be one that truly blesses other people.

And why do the Apostle Peter’s words come to mind at such a time as this? Of his faith and his boldness in proclaiming his faith, his only reason was, “…we cannot help speaking about what we have seen and heard” (Acts 4:20). Perhaps, in this light, the Lord will use this parenthesis¬†to produce a bold writer in my twenty-year-old self, who shall write¬†only because she cannot help but tell the world what she has seen and heard about Jesus for herself.

For how can we help ourselves, when it comes to true wonder?

“And from my smitten heart, with tears / Two wonders I confess / The wonders of His glorious love / And my own worthlessness.”

Till I can claim to know
both wonders more deeply,
Judith}}}