I have had few words.
The goings-on around here have been all consuming and worry, palpable. I’ve beaten my plow into sword; hold my spear at the ready. That which I used to sow is my weapon, and I am on offense now. I practice speaking truth out loud, let promises shine into the darkness of my heart. Romans 8 has been my floodwall and I whisper over and over you are working all things together, Lord. All. Things. Even this.
We’ve been holding hands more, praying together as our bodies touch, inviting God into this fear. When I don’t know what to do, I try loving better. It is Lent and I am feeling unfocused and undisciplined in this, my quiet season. If I cannot be present to those I rub shoulders with every day, what good are my words anyway? And yet I struggle with the fear that when I fall silent on the page I will disappear.
I’ve been sitting with this fear this week, letting it lead me deeper into the heart of God. And you know what? I’m still here. I’m still here and feeling a little surprised by the wide gap between what I think will bring the happy and what actually does. Things like, grating fresh ginger for a new recipe, or walking on top of frozen snow, surprising a friend with a bouquet of flowers for her birthday (I don’t feel like I’m 88 years old, she said) and listening to her tell some of her story, or watching an animated short and giggling with my loves.
There is so much beauty in this broken world. Every square ince is covered and bathed in the glory of God’s amazing grace.