Today, it is warm enough to open the windows. Both kids are at school and the house is quiet. As I sit on the couch, waiting for my laptop to boot up, I gradually realize I can feel the faintest of breezes—an almost imperceptible movement of cool air—over my forearms and the backs of my hands, across my cheeks and nose, on my socked feet. If I hadn’t been sitting so still, waiting for something else, I would have missed it. But now, even as I type, I am yet aware of it.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.
(Image: mine)