My friend Jody posted this article a few days ago, and we had a brief exchange about it. Then that night, in my devotional time, I read this poem by Virginia French, published 15 November, 1941.
"Our Father Who Art"
We will return, O Lord, before the snows,
When autumn winds have hissed our candles out.
Weary and cold, and whimpering on Your name,
We will come back across the withered field
Of this adventure. Surely You will wait
A season, while we play a summer game
Of strength and valor, flaunting willow swords,
Challenging the drowsy dragon-fly
To duel upon the long, sweet meadow-grass.
And when the wanton locust hours end,
When winter's beast-eyes, in the bitter dark,
Circle our meadow, --Father, then prepare
The hearth for us, the chastened, briefly brave,
Stumbling across the world to claim Your love.
Reading it the same day as that article, about how desperately hopeless these current generations feel about everything, how cynical they are about it all-- it just seemed timely. I sat there and prayed that, somehow, these generations, all these lonely, wandering, hopeless, 'briefly brave' people will come to see that just because you feel hopeless doesn't mean there is no Hope. That not seeing an answer doesn't mean there isn't an Answer. That thinking all is lost doesn't mean that you aren't actually already Found, if you'll just stop hiding.
And that God would work in me to somehow be a part of this invitation Home, even--perhaps especially-- for those who as yet don't see the need or the possibility of it.