I’ve a friend who invites conversation by asking, “Where did you see God today?”
And I’ve loved it so, the thought of it.
But, even more, my own thoughts and ponder,
“And what did He say?”
I find God in places happened upon, causing my pause.
A puff of moss amongst high weeds, a purple flower on a single stem, I consider it there for me, burst forth, break through it seems to say.
Morning was a compilation today of happenstance and truth.
The sameness of my journal, the place where thoughts land and the habitual sometimes same old requests I pencil in carefully, thoughtfully certain.
This one’s a slate grey blue and has a delicate copper colored lettering “notes” in its center.
I’ve many journals, pages full, I bet you can only imagine.
This morning I read via Anita Ojeda that journaling is medicine. It wasn’t news to me, still, I felt it new.
This one, “I know this much is true” kinda truth came a little more alive today and so it’s included in my journal.
Memoir means you intentionally write about your past events in order to understand them better. In the process, you’ll find healing. Anita Ojeda
It occurred to me this is the reason I’m only able to write a paragraph here and there when it comes to memoir.
Other places and subjects, even here I can let flow a thousand words or more.
With memoir, I’m tentative.
Maybe it’s because the content is so precious, so precariously cusp teetering like as far my healing, that its power must be approached gingerly, intentionally and not at all hurriedly.
And sometimes I think time might be running out and my season might be winter forever, that my story might never burst forth.
Others, I think I’m just lazy.
This morning, I prayed a prayer for me. The words were not typical, the request new and softer, different.
The place where I’d been asking for strength or courage or forgiveness, clarity or ability to obey,
I asked for love. Love, instead.
Lord, order my day I pray and help me to do the right things in light of your love for me.
I especially love this one old tree. When we walk, I can’t turn my eyes from its frame. We turn back and I pause every time because I find its twisted trunk and aging limbs so sublime.
I don’t think it has another season, yet I see small buds on leafless limbs. I’m waiting to see, is it just not time?
Will the fruit of pecans cover the ground come August?
Will its branches continue to reach towards the sky regardless?
The tree, this beautiful old tree it tells me there is time and purpose and plenty of it still.
I almost skipped my Bible this morning, knowing I must get my butt in gear. My passage for April 10, Psalm 92, “How Great are Your Works” it begins.
And I am amazed again at the never accidental nature of my God.
“The righteous flourish like the palm tree and grow like a cedar in Lebanon. They are planted in the house of the Lord; they flourish in the courts of our God. They still bear fruit in old age; they are ever full of sap and green,”
Psalms 92:12-14 ESV
And mostly that there’s always time to grow, to bear the fruit of hope, so that others may hope as well.
And that perhaps, some things held onto for very, very long must die before new will fully live.
Like being okay with not finding four leaf clovers in a cluster of clover.
Drawn in by the vibrance, caught off guard by the possibility, stymied by the enormous beauty, I look but am satisfied despite finding the one “lucky one”.
I’m seeing God everywhere and I’m noticing, noting clearly and contentedly my need to continue on.
Who’s to say how we grow, when we’ll burst forth unforced.
When the bud might open or the branches stay barren
Only God can make trees. Only God can make me.