I’m just not over it yet, so indulge me.
The past week was filled with the wonderful monotony of living. The laughter of my four-year-old. The smells of Thanksgiving dinner. The excitement of our 7-year-old as we decorate our Christmas tree. Running through the park, walking in the rain, fishing at sunset, hearing the lap of the water against the shore, the song of the birds flying overhead. All creation screams these subtle hints of the Creator. Our God is like a man hiding, who clears his throat and thus gives himself away. In the stillness, there is a deep-down resound of creation that all is well. And all will be well because He holds us in his mighty hand.
Yet there is still something very wrong. There are still crowds of homeless families under the
Andsomething tells us he’s been there before. Long before. The lingering scent of hope. The fragrance that reminds me of how things are supposed to be. How they will one day be again like in The Beginning. Hope in the smiles of terminally ill children. The silent strength of struggling parents. The elderly with lapfulls of orphned-now-adopted children. The laughter of the once-hungry-and-thirsty. The peace of giving away the shoes on your feet and knowing God will provide tomorrow’s manna. The chagrin of seeing it all take place under the radar of those lost in a busy, corporate, ladder-climbing rodent race…and knowing it will happen all over again tomorrow because we are still chasing after shalom and its Prince.
The magnificent monotony of it all.