Truth can be a slow rising, making no difference at first. But as each moment weaves itself into the next, as we believe Him in the great right now, His truth becomes a strand woven into the fabric of our minutes.
I’ve been dwelling in a quiet place. My last day of work ended Friday, and with it came a wicked twenty-four-hour stomach bug. I left with a whimper, barely finishing my last tasks, instead of with a bang, but what of that? It’s over now.
The days that followed meant rest; sleep. Full eight hour, ten hour full stops. No spinning mind, no waking with a mad to-do list ricochet-pow! around my brain. Just rest. As the Sabbath dawned, I attended church, fully there. No spinning madness, tilt-a-whirl round about the liturgy–you forgot to do this, you failed at that whispering through. Just the Word. The body. The bread. The cup. I felt dizzy in the hushed.
Noon and lunch followed, children down for naps, and I wandered my house. Rediscovery. I read. I clumsily knit a few rows. (What good therapy I shall have for my wrist, no?) I scribbled poetry. I sat in the quiet. I felt dizzy in the hushed.
Three more turns of clay, light and dark, have passed, and the dizziness is passing. I greet the quiet, slip her folds about me. I feel spring. I have lived winter long enough. There is no word to name this year, but more, a feeling: an abiding. A dwelling. A healing. I wandered our backyard, and discovered I had forgotten seasons. I walk, discovering feet. My body greets the subtle pain of use with gladness. I will weave the days, re-weave the threads that have fallen while I chased mad after desperation.