Falling
I look at the collection of leaves scattered across my front lawn.
Golden hues among a blanket of brown with hidden hints of orange and red.
I think about the immense beauty that can be found in endings.
I think about Frodo on his perilous journey, Mordor looming dark and foreboding. A glint of gold hidden under his robe of brown, tugging heavy from the chain clasped around his neck.
I think about John Mark Comer in September. He tells us at The Apprentice Gathering about six stages of the faith journey. He speaks about the inward journey and the transition to the outward journey. He draws a solid black line across the whiteboard. But it’s not straight. It’s messy and tangly and has no concise direction. It intersects itself over and over. It reminds me of the journey to Modor.
In short: it’s hard. It’s full of anguish. Uncertainty companions us in it. Despair dogs the shadows.
We are vulnerable. Faith feels diminished.
I think about these words I read on Emily P. Freeman’s substack shared with her by Sarah, a podcast listener ~ “The season Iβve been living in doesnβt seem to be working anymore. I wonder if all of this crumbling Iβm experiencing is less about something being wrong, but more about whether or not who Iβm becoming is breaking the seams of my life. Maybe I can start to feel better about my circumstances and focus instead on what I want to do next.”
Sarah’s words come from her own pondering on this quote ~
βWhen your life is falling apart, itβs because youβve outgrown it.β
And I resonate with Sarah, who I’ve never met, don’t even have a face to put with her name.
Falling leaves. Falling apart.
They signal endings. Signify change.
They come with hidden beauty.
They come with journeys fraught with fumbling, forged in messy lines, and found by incremental stumbling forward.
For it’s no longer about the shiny feeling of all that glitters, but instead a deep longing for an inner stillness, a grounded calm, a measured fullness, an awareness that we are the purpose.
A mindful consciousness of where our feet are.
The Lyrics of Love and Laughter
She’s been my friend ever since she was three years old.
I laugh so loud with her.
She always offers insight, great thinking points, and the best discussions.
I adore hearing her thoughts.
She’s smarter than I am.
I learn so much from her.
She’s innovative, resourceful, and adventuresome. {like her papa}
I love watching her live and how she loves life.
She’s an L.M. Montgomery character stepped from the pages.
I’m so grateful I get to be part of the story.
She usually can laugh at herself and find the humor in situations.
I take myself too seriously.
She’s always reading.
Me too.
She loves home, time to herself, and pauses to ponder.
As do I.
She plays the piano, violin, and harmonica.
I play Spotify.
She lives outside as often as possible.
I open windows and let the outdoors in.
She drives her dad’s eighteen wheeler and owns a motorcycle.
I absolutely don’t.
She doesn’t drink milk.
I grew up finding it to be a travesty if our household happened to be out of milk.
She’s always creating, sewing, experimenting.
I’m so delighted to bear witness to her creations.
And every now and then, I remember to ask my son to snap pictures of us together in the sunshine.
This is the liturgy of life. The lyrics of love and laughter.
Moment by moment. Year by year.
Leaning into the cadence of the people right in front of you.
Whoever that may be for you.
Because one day three-year-olds become twenty-three-year-olds…..but always and forever I still see a glimpse of my delightful three-year-old in this girl of mine.
Savor a Quiet Life
Saturday, any day,
becomes a gift
when we slow and savor.
And the oven’s humming and the dishwasher’s gurgling and the windchimes on the porch catch the breeze and dance a melody.
The farmer is cutting another fifty acres of milo -it’s not much of a crop this year because the rains refused to show but every bushel is a miracle because the rains refused to show.
We slowly gather the grain. Bit by bit. Not much but we’ll take what we get.
And the sunshine sparkles gorgeous and I’ve cranked the window open. I walked a fistful of envelopes to the mailbox earlier. Inked-in checks to cover the electric and pay for farm inputs.
I journal slow thoughtful sentences midmorning and text my mother a few times.
And the trash is emptied and the dishwasher emptied and refilled.
I catch a bit of news from @mosheh and find deep beauty from @christiepurifoy.
I completed some online orders and sent out a group text to my Book Society.
And I’ve been watching Lessons in Chemistry and it’s drawn me into the story in all the best ways. So I message my friend to find out where she is in the series because there are some conversations we need to have about it.
I put books back on my bookshelves and I read a chapter or two.
And it’s time to fold bathtowels and finish listening to @emilypfreeman.
I listened to the @holypostpodcast yesterday and Skye’s interview with Drew Dyck was so completely resonative to me. And they talk about one of my favorite Bible verses right there in black ink in the Thessalonian letter. It says in Chapter 4, verse 11, “Make it your goal to live a quiet life, minding your own business and working with your hands, just as we instructed you before.”
I’m struck again by the beauty in this verse. The arrow it is pointing toward the truth we are the purpose. We are people in whom Christ Jesus dwells and delights.
We get to live in quiet gratitude because in His eyes we are more than enough.
Every good day is a day to delight in.
A Sunday Symphony
Sunday’sΒ #liturgyofthelittlethingsΒ looked like a symphony, stillness in sitting and listening, streets with puddles and lit by lamps, strolling in the crisp damp of showers, sitting around a square table for supper, savoring hummus, snapping a few photos, simple acts of being human.
What struck delight in you this weekend?
Unspoken Faith
We have unspoken faith in a number of things.
We boardedΒ a plane early this morning and landed in Atlanta soon after sun up.
Planes flew in and out, in and out as we walked the airport during our three hour layover.
Traffic flocked around the curves and across the freeway bridge.
We watched luggage transfers and numerous vehicles buzzing around inside the airport’s own little city. Suitcases were fed onto conveyors. Buses circled through. Air traffic controllers signaled and gave directions.
People thronged through the airport. Up escalators and back down. On the plane train and off again.
Ordering food. Standing in line at Starbucks. Finding a corner and an outlet for charging.
The faithful people in charge of cleaning services shuttled their cleaning carts along corridors and in and out of the numerous bathrooms.
As we walked the jetway, stood patiently in the plane aisle as each traveler hoisted their bag in the overhead bin, I held company with contemplation.
Unwitting faith in so many things.
Faith in wings.
Faith in lift.
Faith in instruments.
In air currents and weather reports.
Faith in luggage labels, sorting and connections.
Faith in humans.
Faith in bridge supports.
Turning signals and steering wheels.
Faith in engineers.
Faith in brakes.
Faith in moving stairways.
In backpack straps and shoelaces.
Faith in plumbing.
In chairs and tables and computer screens.
Faith that a cinnamon Dolce latte will taste the same in Atlanta as it does in Wichita, Kansas.
Faith in the farmer’s hand held in mine.
Faith that I get to hug my dad and mom around their necks one time more.
Faith in the general goodwill of humankind.
I have a lot of questions about faith.
A lot of cynicism some days at how faith gets put into practice.
Some days it feels like the doubts outweigh the discernment.
But there’s no denying every living breathing human practices faith every single day we live and breath.
I’m grateful for the practice of faith.
