I’m ushered forward by the sunrise a few days a week. The road is often mine alone, I’m on schedule for my arrival and with low songs surrounding me, I notice the changing borders, green growth, fields becoming food and trees dotted with coral peaches.
I’ve been tracking an object since I first glimpsed it on Monday. Celebratory balloons, a star and two others, silvery white and deflating, drifted to rest in the high grassy border.
I wondered where it had been, how it ended up here, how long it may be before it’s flat in the ditch or whether the wind might miraculously lift it to cross the road and be found in a better place.
It stayed in the same place and by now it’s likely flat, deflated and hidden.
The happy gesture of someone for someone on their birthday drifted away and deflated.
Maybe there was laughter when the ribbon escaped the grip of a little hand. Maybe the one who tied them to a porch rail tied them too loosely and, oh no they got away.
I wondered about the faces turned towards heaven that smiled as the balloons met the sky and then left them.
Left to wonder what happens now.
I thought of what waiting feels like, waiting for God to take our prayers and hold them for a bit as we long for permission to go safely in another direction or we linger in that place we’ve been kept with no answer, no escape, no clear resolution.
Waiting, I thought feels like hope slowing deflating.
Or it feels like rest.
The choice is ours.
Each day I write “trust” in the spot above the date in my journal.
I hope it sets my tone, positions my soul to be satisfied although waiting. Waiting to see if my words sent to another might be shared, waiting to see if the works of my hands, brushed on paper and canvas might move someone to purchase and move to their home.
I move a new painting into my living room, I want to get a sense of the colors, whether they welcome or comfort. Are there places I missed? Does it tell me the story I hope it tells others.
Will someone see “The Promise” of an unclouded day in the same way the hymn came clearly as I decided the sky should be brilliant and cloudless?
Every picture tells a story.
Oh, they tell me of a home far beyond the skies
Oh, they tell me of a home far away
Oh, they tell me of a home where no storm clouds rise
Oh, they tell me of an unclouded day…(a hymn Willie Nelson sings, my mama’s favorite.)
Everything comes together, God brings all things together.
A verse comes to mind.
The soul at rest is peace.
Like an estate set aside for someone later, a trust to secure a child’s future, God must have things securely waiting for the right time in His sovereignty for me to hold them in my heart, see the reason for the waiting.
Trust is rest.
Like the birthday balloons trapped in the overgrowth and slowly deflating, I can choose the place I’m in as a place of settled trust.
I can wait for the next place God takes me.
I can see waiting as God knowing me.
I’ll take the country road again. I’ll glance with expectation towards the field to my right, the place with the resting balloons.
I’ll be expectant that I won’t see them, that they’ve been caught by the warm breeze of weekend and they’ve caught the attention of another.
Someone like me, feeling deflated by waiting and realizing there’s purpose in pausing and rest never means stopping.
To rest is to trust.
“Let the dawning day bring me revelation of your tender, unfailing love. Give me light for my path and teach me, for I trust in you.”
Psalms 143:8 TPT
Continue and believe.