Stoney Ground

Trees rising from mountain rock

Like quiet testimonies etched into stones..

That even what is hard can cradle life.

Planted in the Rock,

we are not diminished by the place we’re in,

but defined by it.

Strong.

Beautiful.

Carved in a kind of majesty

only pressure could reveal.

And there…

Wedged in the silence of the stone,

held between what cannot move….

Anchored in a place set apart

That is where we grow.

Roots slipping into the unseen,

threading through cracks and fractures,

searching, aching,

reaching for what only the Father can give.

And it is not gentle…

this stretching into depth.

It is a quiet breaking.

A holy pressing.

A kind of pain that does not destroy

but transforms completely.

Pressed in,

yet not crushed.

Hidden,

yet never forgotten.

And then I remember the rock that bled water

dry stone split open

by the touch of God,

overflowing with what it never held before.

Provision poured from what seemed impossible.

Life drawn from what appeared lifeless.

So even here,

in this place of tension and trembling,

I believe

the same God

still makes water flow.

Roots press deeper,

winding through resistance,

until the very thing that seemed to block growth

becomes the path that carries it.

And what looks like struggle

is only the language of becoming.

What feels like delay

is the shaping of something enduring.

So I walk this earth

with both weight and wonder

feet touching dust,

heart lifted toward eternity

caught in the tension

of what is seen

and what is promised.

Yet I am not lost in it.

I am planted.

In Him.

Anchored in the living God

Father, Spirit, and Son

held, held, held

in the sacred depths of His presence.

And there

in the quiet place beneath the surface

where roots drink and do not fear

I live.

I grow.

I become.

Like a tree

that learned how to rise

only after it learned

how to remain in the stillness of stone.