When I was a little girl I loved to lie down in the cool, sandy dirt pathway that led from my grandma’s house to the pond. I could lie there staring upwards in silence, not thinking or imagining anything; just fixated on the expanse of blue as my hands caressed the fine, sandy dirt, rhythmically filtering handfuls through my fingers. Or sometimes I’d position myself under the chinaberry tree and peer through the branches sprinkled with teeny-tiny green berries, still wondering about everything; at the same time content to figure out nothing really, just to be there with sky, ground and God… my grandma’s backyard.
Recently, not Mother’s Day as you may expect, I drove to the country cemetery up on a hill, a family place, Hendrix Cemetery. I was alone and content to be with my mama and daddy. I was secluded enough, surrounded by farmer’s fields to place tokens of my love, my longings for them on their headstones. A penny for my daddy, a flower for my mama and then I rested under the old cedar tree, its fingerlings branches reaching towards heaven. Not a sorrowful rest, but a sweet surrender to sovereignty… a place of acceptance, more so over time, a quiet rest, in in the country, with them, the trees, and the bluest blue sky.
With God…a place of soul rest.
“Come with me by yourselves to a quiet place.” Jesus