Thursday, February 6, 2014

The Language We Were Given to Share

Shoveling snow beneath violet skies because you asked me would I help. D. reminds me - again - that "making paths for chickens ain't farming." The Pleiades seen through binoculars . . . what is it about stars and mist that makes me think I'm seeing the face of God?

Pine cones litter the trail, one of which I pocket to bring home for you. The air fills with promise, also known around my house as the two-note spring song of chickadees. And wordy mornings pass like piano notes, invisible and lovely.

The past is only the gloss we force on the present. There is nothing hard about God. We know what the Truth is when we are grateful.

Thank you for the wind which sifts snow down from branches, each tiny flake a diamantine witness to sunlight. Heartbreak is not possible in such a lovely world. How long I questioned my worthiness!

Salad, corn bread, pickled baby carrots with ginger, chicken thighs, rice noodles with mushrooms in peanut sauce and refried beans with marinated beef. When I wake up I say aloud "good morning Taraji" and the dog knows we're going walking. At last I am almost castleless.

Blessings abound! Even as there is less and less to say. How happy I am throwing snow at the beautiful sky while you laugh!

What is given is not only enough but all there is. You are my home and we welcome Christ together, each in the language we were given to share.

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