There’s a boy who couldn’t stop hysterically laughing at every gourd he pulled from the market basket. He held one out as I passed and we felt infectious joy shoot up between us.
Down the hill, there are sober clad mourners gathering in the parking lot, jackets whipping in the wind. Is it this time already? Someone scuffs the pavement.
A bridge, and a neighbour with mermaid hair chats over a fence with the newlyweds. The clouds of early morning clear off and I pass peeling apartments, a sand pile, a parking lot.
There’s a smell of bread in my car, and corn and the sound of missing him that plays in my head all the time.
And again and again and again, I hear the words of a long suffering God saying louder, seek the good of your city.
When you want to bury your head in the computer and boot it up.
When breaking news ticks across every screen.
When you’re weary, broken and down-trodden…For this, you need not despair.
But pick up the gourds, quiet your soul, and with love beyond yourself..seek the good of your city.
Hey guys! There is a real life wedding happening here tomorrow, but in the meantime…you can read this guest post over in the Ink Loft.
There is nothing so sweet as the taste of summer blackberry. Bittersweet is the tearing of brambles against the back of my hand.
Joyful is the sound of one little girl whose every word is a shout of praise. Testing is the noise level.
At night, doing battle in the mind-maze, there is nothing so gentle as the sound of rain. The humidity curls my hair.
But nothing, nothing so kind as the kissing away of a lover’s quarrel, the smoothing of a forehead.
Restful until the morning comes.
“‘There’s only two things that money can’t buy,’ Papa would say. ‘That’s true, true love and homegrown tomatoes.'”
~Kevin West, in this book
When the moment is past, and the letter has come and the fears of 3:00 in the night have faded…The first conviction I have is of lost time.
The time lost worrying, doubting, fretting, my voice in a continual ungodly whine.
The time lost fearing every uncomfortable thing, when I could have been practicing faith.
Faith that God is good in the waiting. That He will keep us no matter the outcome. That this time, this phase, these moments…or exactly where I need to be.
And when the prayers are answered yes, I resolve… In the trials that come, I want to be the festal shout, right in the middle of it, no end in sight.
It’s been awhile…
Happy is a slippery word, and slipperier idea.
Never the means, and always a mirage of ends.
We thought it would wear a diamond ring, from the velvet hand of a man.
Or the baby, rolls on dimples, picture perfect for the applause of strangers.
The job, professional, and complete with brown bag lunches.
One, two, three, and then it’s gone. Happiness, like an August rain, blown out with the twilight colour.
So then happy. Not the ends, but a tangle of means. The means of contentment, of the changed heart, of the new eyes.
That person, the difficult. These times, the waiting.
Happy my heart. And happy any heart that learns it’s starting right now. Right here.