Some people are just showy. They strut their stuff and it’s good. No matter what they wear, it draws attention. And whatever they do, it’s news. They are the trend-setters. All eyes are on them. And they revel in the limelight. The good gaze of an adoring and appreciative audience.
My beautiful hydrangea is one of these. Watering can in hand, I marveled as I approached the plant to give it a drink. How glorious its blooms shone in the rise of the morning sun. The lavender luster of the largest stole the show.
As I drew closer, a smaller, pinker display invited me to look. Not yet fully bloomed, this pink one had potential. The water droplets on its delicate petals winked at me. Just wait, they seemed to say, we’re gonna be gorgeous.
As I drew nearer to give the stems a drink, I noticed a burgeoning floral bundle I had nearly missed. Its bushy lavender petals were mostly hidden from view by the lush greenery. Only when I pulled them aside could I appreciate its beauty. It wasn’t hiding; it was just happy to be beautiful under the foliage. Away from the bright sun. As if it had chosen not to compete with its showier siblings.
It was in full bloom. Stunning in its beauty, yet happy, right where it was. Doing its right thing.
Oh, to be satisfied with that.
A million lights twinkle above me in constellations I once knew. Bright lights from bodies trillions of miles away scatter the early morning darkness. I whirl in wonder at their glorious display.
How, O Lord, can I fail to believe you are here?
My feet, rooted in dust and dirt, are heavy in the sand of time, in the gnarled root of twisted words and weighty worries. It bends me and pulls me down, insisting I pay attention. I fall again and again at my own feet.
How, O Lord, can I believe you are here?
Is there another? Another who reaches and falls, reaches and falls, as I do this day? My expiration, she inspires? His expiration, I inspire? Do we, together, breathe the universe?
How, O Lord, could we not believe, if we knew one another?
It’s comforting to sit among friends
to share how difficult it is
(life makes it)
to wait to do what I’m supposed to,
meant to, what I promised to do.
Circumstances don’t define me.
My life is bigger than that.
Life needn’t suffocate me.
I can choose air, light, breath.
Inspiration is around me and in me.
If I let God make it, shape it for me.
I am Not a stone. Not a statue.
I am but the movement, the hinge, the moving part.
I’m a limb, but God traces my arc.
I’m the impetus, but God is the animation.
I’m the pen to paper, but God is the words.
I’m the stamp, but God is the sender.
I’m the hand, but God is the help.
I’m the give, but God is the giver.
I’m the learn, but God is the teacher.
I’m the eyes, but God is the seer.
I’m the ears, but God is the hearer.
I’m the nose, but God is the smeller.
When I’m stinky, God hugs me anyway.
God, in me, is.