there’s a look in the eyes of someone who has suffered much and come through it to the other side. a certain clarity - as if the tears had washed away the haze of everyday taken-for-granted life.
it's the look on the face of a woman who has gone through endless hours of pain and labor and holds in her arms the living breathing result of her agony. and she does not remember the pain...her exhaustion and yet her ecstasy creates a pure glow about her that is almost holy.
it's the lines of sorrow printed on a face to whom the finality of loss has come to make shadows that weren’t there before, but they are not awful shadows. Instead they are the difference between an amateur painting and one done by a master, with careful strokes of light and shade that give character and depth. The finger of God is evident.
The artist of heaven takes our unlined, dull and inanely contented image…the "botox beauty"... and He paints with deep blood colors. I’ve looked in the mirror after weeping…and my eyes are different. Even swollen and red, they reflect a soul that has tasted the reality of life with its bitterness and sweetness, and I hardly know myself. but i see a soul that is less clouded, less detached...
anguish is not easy, but perhaps it's necessary to see clearly.
an old song says "He washed my eyes with tears, that I might see...the broken heart I had was good for me..."
gethsemane.
calvary.
but there is always a morning.
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