Cramped up.
Waiting.
Not soaring as the heart longs to do. . . yet, anyways.
Painful yet necessary.
For even in the cramped, isolated stage, wings form.
Perhaps it is because it is cramped and isolated, wings form. Sometimes it is in darkness and loneliness we further become.
Waiting for time.
His time.
Perfect time.
To shorten it would be to stop the full process and without full process, flight can not be taken.
Even as I watch the cocoon, it seems the right time.
Any moment can be the moment.
Even as I watch, it doesn't happen.
An hour.
Two.
Still, the process continues on, bound up--though now visible to the watcher, no longer obscured by the emerald cloak.
Another hour.
Surely now. . .
I hover, trying to capture the emergence. It eludes.
It is not yet time.
"Shiloh. This is Shiloh," I think. "It seems right. It seems like it's time. And yet. . . not yet. So close, yet not yet."
Back turned, focused to other tasks, a glance over mere minutes later.
There it is!
Missed.
But clearly evident.
While busy doing the demands of now. I must not fore-go obedience today while waiting for tomorrow's flight. Tomorrow's wings are evidence of today's surrender.
I capture what is left of the emergence.
This is how it works.
There is no clearly watched defining moment. We just realize we've changed. We've emerged.
Better. Stronger. Deeper in love. Now with wings.
Wings.
Wings miniature in size. One almost wonders if they are deformed. These are not butterfly wings. They are scale of normal span.
More time.
It passes.
Painfully.
Wings slowly moved. Cautiously.
Exploring.
Hesitantly opening. Closing.
Getting a feel for flight.
More time.
Flight is several hours away. Sometimes the feeling of wings needs to be adjusted to before use.
Gently handled.
Carried from enclosure to outside world.
Released to go.
Sunlight soaked up.
Wings beat stronger.
Sonlight soaked up.
Heart wings beat stronger.
Suddenly, the time is here.
The time is now.
It is time to soar. Time to use the wings formed in dark, painful isolation.
I was not meant to be a creeping creature. I was meant to fly. Into the Son.
Because of the Son.
Waiting forms my wings.
