A time to plant and a time to harvest…
A time to scatter stones and a time to gather stones…
A time to be quiet and a time to speak…
A time to love…
Excerpts from Ecclesiastes 3~NLT
The dog days of summer were winding down. I was scattered. Frayed around the edges. A bit weary and so so tired.
I took two weeks away from this space that God has called me to. I spent most evenings just like this. Sitting on the deck. Feet propped up. The breeze kissing my face. Treetops dancing in the wind. Sweet Lola stretched out on the chase lounge near me.
I read three beautiful books. Grace in the Middle. Wild in the Hollow. A Longing For Paris. I highly recommend them. Seemed as if there were pieces of me scattered throughout the pages.
“It’s forgetting that we were made to walk on water, not cower at the sound of thunder.” from Grace in the Middle~Wendy Duke
“The hollow is made for a Holy Spirit that satisfies and any other thing will only dry the bones and hush the prayer.” from Wild in the Hollow~Amber C. Haines
“When God wove us together out of dust and love, it was personal and intimate. God did not speak me into existence like He did the sun and the moon and the plants and the animals. He formed me, molding me with His hands, and He breathed His breath into me.” from A Longing for Paris~Sarah Mae
An old love needed renewing. I needed fresh breath and dry bones brought back to life. I needed to remember I was created to walk on the water. Not cower at the thunder, the overwhelming things of life.
Not fold into the fatigue.
And so as the day waned into evening, I carried my Bible, my journal and pen, the ever present Gatorade and went to sit in my favorite place. Leaving the iPhone, the iPad, the selfish “I” of me inside the house. That whining, complaining, “woe is me” I found I had become.
Surrounded by the sounds of His creation…the ever so gentle breeze, the humming of the bees, the call of the “Bob White”, the soulful sounds of the mourning doves, the thousand beats of the humming bird’s wings.
I opened my journal. Words spilled across the page. Love letters to The Lover of my soul. Confessions. Bucket lists and big dreams in purple ink.
Words of worship and praise. Whispers of His Breath fill me back up.
More of Him. Less of me. Somewhere in the fraying, I had forgotten that…More of Him. Less of me.
Looking back over the past days and weeks that’s where the fraying began. Taking the focus off Him. Sinking into the circumstances.
There has been a shifting these past evenings. A moving closer to the braver me, where my strength comes from Christ within. A moving closer back to Him.
The remembering. Remembering I am formed by His hands. His Breath rises and falls within me. That even in the worst version of me, my heart beats wildly for Him.
The counting. Counting of graces and gifts from Him.
“Counting graces always helps me to find my way home into worship. Once I can get onto the path of worship, my feet will carry me into the arms of God.” Mary Ann Morgan
That is all I have ever wanted…feet that carry me into the arms of God. The place where frayed edges are tenderly mended by the hands of my Creator.
Graced by God