How often is that the way it is with me and God. More me than him. Much more me. He is always there, a permanent whisper and breeze. An unceasing movement of Spirit. But it is mostly when I am quiet that I hear that whisper or sense that movement. Sometimes I’m quiet on purpose. More often, it happens by “accident,” by no intention on my part other than I have stopped for moment. But, amazingly, there are more moments now than before that even as I move I am aware of him.
And that is no talent or skill of my own. That is a gift. A gift for which I did so little, for which my small discipline yielded a crop beyond its seed. A gift for which I almost weep with humble gratitude.