all creation waits

we step off the plane onto scorching tarmack.  an instant wall of sweat hits the body.  the heat swells over me, sweaty baby swaddled around my middle in the snuggly.

“this way… bus 4 miss…” we are quickly ushered onto a ventilated bus & begin our long journey to the keys, down the coastway.  we drive.  my eyes squint to take in my cuban surroundings.  it has not rained here in some time.  we wind through burnt brown hills bloched by black ash.  it is midday yet sunflowers hang their heads... waiting.  dusty towns, chickens askew, thickets ripe with thistle guard yards.  goat & cow teathered to the ground... waiting.  a thin, ribbed horse, tired & weary, sighs & snorts as it carries expectant visitors to their destination.  barren field of brown after barren field, plowed by ancient machinery & leathered skinned, brown browed farmers.    we leave the charred country side & our massive tour bus sways its way down through the cobbled streets of Remedious {translation: the Remedy}.  a cowboy stares us down as he straddles the muscle barren back of a young colt turned old... waiting.  thread bare linens crowd intricately webbed laundry lines in a small cluster of paint chipped housing.  an old wrinkled lady in bright, frilly skirt sits smoking a cigar at the square, where two churches share a corner.   the first church’s door is giantly old but splinter thin.  it is empty, full of the echos of a zealous past... waiting.  we begin down the winding causeway, a thin penisula of rocky soil & bridge winds across still ocean for as far as the eye can see.   a lone pelican stands guard upon a stake... waiting.  blue spreads clean across water.  but it looks all wrong.  no white waves.  not a sound.  it is quiet & eerily still.  the eye catches on grey clusters of fish slumbering beneath the blue... waiting.  we are getting closer to the keys as solitary bushes appear unexpectantly amidst the salty stillness.  bushes evolve into clusters of bramble with vines casting them selves into the depths... waiting.  but still not a breeze, not a move, not even a ripple.  we leave our ocean platform & head into our final port of call.

waiting.  waiting for the rain to pour down & flood this earth, for restoration to sink deep into dry root. for the wind of the holy spirit to blow across parched, deserted ground, breathing life to the given up & forgotten.  for fresh, green sprigs to sprout & flourish through the cracks, binding broken earth together with strong fibrous root, healing & holding it's ground.  for branch to bow low with bountiful fruitfulness, with the deliciously fat spoil of God goodness. the fruition of fertility.  for the revealing of the sons of God, girding up to take their rightful place.  for the one & only Remedy.  waiting.

a few days later we retrace our steps back across the ocean & through dusty villages, load luggage onto our trusty plane & fly home.  as we step off the hanger into the airport we are greeted by line upon line.  our customs forms are stamped, luggage is gathered once again & we slosh into slushy grey snow.  a wind whips the warm right our of the bones.  it is rush hour & people, cars, taxi & bus spin a jigsaw of patterns across the roads & highways... waiting.

"for all creation, gazing eagerly as if with outstretched neck, is waiting and longing to see the manifestation of the sons of God." 
{romans 8:19, weymouth new testament}

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