When the Picture Doesn't Fit the Frame

 

 

 

      With the rigid creaking of plastic I have posed many Barbie doll visions. Some of these visions, like  childhood dolls, have long been outgrown. Some have been stashed away in a box in the dark corner of my closet as the house full of toys became cluttered along the way. Some are still engaged in a game of peek-a-boo.

      But realistically, many, many seem to have been tipped belly-up in an adult sea of suffering. The suffering that we know comes to us all, the righteous and the unrighteous, although it often appears that the unrighteous fare much better. The suffering that alters our vision accordingly in a fallen world with a risen Savior.

 

     And with a twinge of pain in my heart, and blurry tear-filled eyes these visions-these combined pictures, like a string of paper dolls,  have made their way into other boxes to be discarded. At times I agonize over what to keep. But the truth of the matter is that I only have so much space in my house, on my walls, and only so many frames. Many of the old pictures simply do not fit very many of my frames. And all the clutter only weighs me down more. And as I am weighed down I walk outside and sink my heels into the autumn earth-the autumn earth that is a reminder to me of death and ashes.

        My arms are like brittle, sagging branches bracing for heavy snows to come.  But that is where my Custom Framer comes in. He gently pries open my hands-the hands that I had no idea are clenched so tightly with dry, cracked skin and white knuckles. He whispers in my ear, "Forget the former things; do not dwell on the past. See, I am doing a new thing! Now it springs up; do you not perceive it? I am making a way in the wilderness and streams in the wasteland." And with those words, I am taken aback with a breath of crisp air, and I watch as more of those clutched pictures, like falling leaves, drift peacefully underfoot. He takes my hand and together we walk over crunching leaves  and together we dream new dreams and see new visions.  He tells me that these are the times when hope is planted and assures me that He already sees the harvest and wants me to see it too. And before it is time to go back inside again and tend to my dolls, a little girl and little boy, we crouch on the ground for a moment. He beckons me to stop and rest and gaze upon the one picture that will never fade, that never has to go in the box, that never disappoints, that always fits the frame. The one picture I can go back to when I'm stuck in my pain and misery, the grief of chronic illness,  the past, or guilt. The picture I can see when I ask myself where was God when I made the seemingly unforgiveable mistake or where is God when my suffering feels  insurmountable? It's my God, hanging on the cross taking my suffering from me.  He lived it; He felt it; He understood it;  He grieves with me; He sees it; He conquered it.  I trade my earthly vision for an eternal one and store up joy for the coming winter.