I saw a vision this morning of enormous hands,
ancient and weathered.
The kind of hands carved with enduring wisdom.
A pot was cradled in one hand,
the other, steady and sure,
held a wooden spoon.
And with it, He stirred.
And stirred
and stirred.
Slow, purposeful,
each motion a silent vow.
The contents churning, tumbling.
I felt His eyes gazing at me, inviting me to wonder.
What does it mean for God to stir the pot?
A flood of thoughts tumbled through my heart
while curiosity gave them room to roam.
Doesn’t it mean
to disrupt, to unsettle,
to upend the familiar?
I felt irritation rise up in my soul.
Anger began to bubble.
Seriously, God? This feels unkind.
Yet here, the stirring was not wild,
not angry, not antagonistic.
No chaos, no malice,
only loving purpose
and care.
But the stirring is going on
and on
and on.
Is this not the new normal?
Has the endless stirring become our daily?
The wrestle continues.
Initially, I put myself in the pot...
tossed and turned,
caught in the endless, turbulent cycle,
a victim of the spoon,
wondering,
What is this all for?
But then,
I sat myself beside Him,
watching those hands more carefully.
Hands that shape galaxies
and cradle sparrows.
What kind of hands are these?
I took a deep breath
and watched some more.
The trees held firm through the stirring.
The mountains still rose up to greet Him.
The rivers still teemed with life.
Beauty emerged and
gripped my senses once again.
I looked in His face,
tears filling my eyes.
Trust, tentative but real,
began to awaken.
In that quiet moment,
He smiled.
beautiful!