Thursday, July 25, 2013

Tail of Summer

Sliding down the tip of summer, I stop, wedged in a thin space between living with the abandonment I crave and needing just a little bit of structure to contain it.  I sit between knowing what’s to unfold in a day and waiting for it to fold me up instead.  I remember my lofty summer goals of May, the home projects we would tackle and the children’s crafts we would create.  I remember all of the day trips we would take and the acts of service we would commit.  

Yet now, grasping at the tail of summer, all of our togetherness, all of our woven moments bleed into one long, honeysuckle-sweet memory.  And not many of the moments I planned in the spring have even made it into the mix.  Few crafts have been made.  We’ve mostly stayed at home or beside cool waters. But it feels more like freedom than failure, more like grace than pressure.   

So while we ride this last mile of the stretched out summer highway, may grace and freedom and togetherness keep us savoring instead of speeding.  May the things we have left undone settle into a safe place of acceptance or maybe-one-days.  And may the final weeks before the school bell rings and the soccer whistle blows be filled to the brim with unplanned moments and simple memories blurring together into the last few sweet drips of summer.    

Monday, July 8, 2013

A Time Such as This

Often my whispered prayers come out like the questions my four-year-old asks in the long summer afternoon.  What now?  What next?   And I can barely make space for a Voice to answer, because I am being folded deep into what is.  Pursuit and desire for the next step, for the knowing where and how to move within the lines of all that is, can edge on restlessness but fall into expectancy.

It seems like just when I find myself settled into a sense of exhale, I hear the holy haunting of a God who doesn’t stop moving whispering, go there, try this, step out.  And those nudges, gentle in nature and laced with grace, have me always wanting a little bit more, always desiring a little bit of newness.    

I would like to think that if I were to hear the Voice say, “Go into the ark, you and your whole family” like it once did to Noah, that I would find the wood and start building.  I would like to think that I would gather the troops and begin to organize. 

But God hasn’t yet audibly laid out the plan for me.  Mostly I hear creaking of doors opening, the Voice speaking less in words and more in stirrings and fresh opportunities.  Mostly I hear the laying down of stepping stones, the Voice speaking more by a soft pressing on my back. 

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