Have we ever considered that God is so enraptured with beginnings that He permits the pain of endings so that we can experience the exhilaration of beginnings?

Without a beginning I am pouring the whole of my existence into the building of endings, while the cross and the resurrection declare that God is incessantly building beginnings from the collapse of endings.

Life is so utterly enraptured with beginnings that it can do little else than perpetually create space for them. And those spaces are what we call endings.

Maybe I don’t have enough beginnings in my life because I fought against the endings that were about to birth those beginnings.

The cross unerringly exposes this stunningly marvelous and abruptly exquisite declaration that God will not let this single life of mine, with all of its grotesque maladies and pathetic filth pass into oblivion without unflinchingly declaring that my life carries a value worth the expenditure of His. And if I dare look upon the cross, I am utterly perplexed but wholly enraptured by the immensity of such a love as this.

A new start is never dictated by some random place on a calendar. Rather, it’s dictated by the state of our attitude.

As it peaks over the horizon, does not a sunrise whisper the opportunity to try again. And if the day passes and our efforts were stunted by the bane of our insecurities or blunted by the challenges of life, does not a sunset invite us to rest before it whispers the same message the next morning?

Beginnings and endings are simply part of a journey that isn’t stopped by either.

An ending is something like a caboose on a train that just pulled out so that there’s room for the train that’s now arriving. The problem is, we forget that a caboose is only one part of one train.