But for now, I die.

I wrote the words below around two years ago. Today, I am surprised to still see that the death I wrote about hasn't happened yet. I'm still taking the last few ragged breaths. It won't be long now. This season of death and dying will end and a season of new life will begin.

This probably isn't the best first entry to start a new blog, but it was true when I wrote it two years ago and it's still true today. It's the start of whatever this is.

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April 2014

It’s the season of resurrection. Out of the cold, dead ground spring is starting to bloom. Trees are budding. Flowers are beginning to peek their sleeping heads out of the lifeless beds of mulch. Life is returning.

I want that for me too. For my faith. It’s not dead. No. But it’s taking ragged breaths. It’s touch and go. Doubt sits heavy on my chest. My lungs are tight. I long for deep breaths, but I can only sip the stale air surrounding me. The stale air that is culture wars. The stale air that wants to control. The stale air that must will its world view to be right. The stale air that can’t be questioned because questions cause this house of cards to fall.

Yet I know that there is more to faith, to my faith, than the vultures of false truth that are circling me right now. There is a kernel of real faith. There is a seed.

It’s one of those sermon analogies that is leaned on so heavy this time of year. The seed must die before it can become what it is meant to be. That sounds so trite.  I don’t want to find relief in the arms of these people, these porcelain Christians. I don’t want their words to comfort me. I want to do this myself.

That doesn’t matter though. Hope is hope. Life moves in seasons. For life to go on, something must die, but in that death seeds are spread forth. Those seeds die and bring about life. Whatever faith is in me right now is dying. But it’s not an eternal death. It’s a death that comes with resurrection. It’s a death that is going to produce something new. It’s going to produce a new faith in me.

It hurts right now. It’s awkward. It’s hard. It’s lonesome. But soon, I will be above ground again. So I will feel the warm sun. Soon, this thirst will be quenched by the rains of spring. Soon I will grow. Soon I will find leaves and flowers on my own branches. Soon I will offer shade. Soon I will have roots.

But for now, I die.