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Sunday, August 30, 2009

Torn Sails

(Author warning: it's Kelvin)

So, how do you describe a hole in your heart? Well, let me try, and probably more for my benefit than yours.

The terrible disease with the Battens moniker which has ravaged little Emma's mind and body has without a doubt taken a toll on us. The hole in our hearts is not a pierce, but instead is a ripped apart section, where the edges are jagged, fresh and won't heal. Visually, picture a damaged main sail of a great ship. It is the only source of power for the vessel, it continues to work, but lacks efficiency and certainly beauty. The fabric is all there, flapping fiercely in the same winds that ripped it. Even in the dark of night the flapping reminds you it is there. The ship still moves, in a fundamental manner, point A to point B sort of stuff. It still keeps its bow pointed into the waves and moves forward, only slower and without the tactical abilities it once had.

Eventually, the winds will tear away the tattered, flapping edges. The night will be quite as the wind blows through the void. We will try to fill the void for the sake of the health of the ship, but the fabrics won't match, the stitching will be an eyesore and the hems will require constant repair and attention.

To be sure, we must also look around the rest of the ship. We are surprised how well the rest is doing. We are surprised she still handles the waves so well, given the loss of so much sail. We seem to make port on time, navigating channels and straits without alarm. We see the rudder is intact and functioning, but a rudder without forward movement is no more useful than another anchor. We then look to the sideboards and notice a change. Strategic holes now fill each side, with long sleek oars extending through them and into the water. Listening closely we hear a low voice..."stroke...stroke...stroke..." Each side of what was once our single occupancy ship is now being powered be teams of rowers. Most hide their faces, seeking anonymity. But looking closely we see who they are. They are friends, friends delivered in the night by a gracious and caring God, a God who sits in the fore of the boat, quietly whispering ...stroke...stroke...stroke...

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