A tiny twine, white and weak. Hope. Barely there, but alive yet. Refusing to be strangled by the weeds constantly throwing their angry tentacles against it. Hope. Slowly watered by Word and the light of song. Desperately grasping at any solid earth it can find in me. Inch by inch rooting, burrowing, twisting into softer ground. Hope. There will be a spring. Past the cold winter and stepping out in a warm breeze that tickles the soul. Hope. In the thick strong roots cultivated by years of not giving in or giving up. Hope. The mighty trunk, solid and straight, reaching up with firm arms and living fingers. Out of the fingers come all the fruits that tiny white spindle once promised.
Love. You will love the Lord your God with all…and love others even as you love you.
Joy. That surpasses the understanding found in the weeds, for now we are above them and they can no longer strangle the life from our bones.
Peace. Peace be with you he said, even though the nails were driven into our very tree.
Patience. Patience little twine of hope, for there will be more to come.
Kindness. Like clouds that take in the water only to pour it out and refresh others.
Goodness. The fruit directly from his heart, spilling juice in abundance over our branches.
Faithfulness. First what I learnt from you, and purely holding on was all of mine.
Gentleness. In that warm breeze again blowing through the fruit of life now growing.
Self control. That in all of the struggles, in all of the growing, in all of the fresh and abundant fruit, I see You.
