Redeemed

courage, curiousity, Faith, family, hope, memoir, mercy, praise, Prayer, Redemption, Stillness, Vulnerability, wonder

“Let the redeemed of the Lord say so, whom he has redeemed from trouble”
‭‭Psalm‬ ‭107:2‬ ‭ESV‬‬

Georgia

When this kitty cat came to me as a homeless sort, sleeping in a horse stall because she got separated from the litter and the mama, she hid under the house.

Imagine me lying on my belly in the overgrown elephant ear plants in the corner near the kitchen.

There was no coaxing her out. She came to me reluctantly the next morning.

Last week someone suggested I might not be the best kitten mother, maybe I don’t have the time or patience to tame her.

I considered it, that I’m not a real animal person, that she’d be better in another place.

But, I persisted.

I approached her with the understanding of her lack of trust, understanding she felt more safe all alone, she could only trust herself, she’d learned.

I had empathy with a tiny grey cat and changed one thing.

I became unselfish with my morning quiet. I made it her time first.

I allow her to find my lap. I don’t reach for the journal, the Bible, the pen or the stack of books.

I cup my warm coffee cup and I sit quietly. I think. I breathe.

I pray. We sit.

Early on, I considered the kitten sheltering under the house, hidden and afraid and I decided to see her perspective.

This new place, these new noisy people, this warmth inside, this back favorite room where the sun warms the blanket.

This woman, this man, these people plus a little toddler, a bit overwhelming.

The person who cautioned over the adjustment was also adamant not to allow my granddaughter near.

I wondered. I decided it will be okay. Because my grandchild understands the need for a gentle voice, a gentle hand.

She’s not bothered if kitty cat runs away, we’ll just try another time.

Gently.

Gently and with our persistence she sees we’re redeeming her uncertain beginning.

Same with us, the invitation to the Savior’s call, the gentle beckoning of us to come near, be safe.

“And so we know and rely on the love God has for us. God is love. Whoever lives in love lives in God, and God in them.”
‭‭1 John‬ ‭4:16‬ ‭NIV‬‬

Be taken care of.

I pray you don’t resist the call to be rescued by the sacrifice provided by God, our Father

His Son, our teacher, our Savior.


“Come, ye sinners, poor and needy,
Weak and wounded, sick and sore,
Jesus ready stands to save you,
Full of pity, love, and pow’r.


I will arise and go to Jesus;
He will embrace me in His arms.
In the arms of my dear Savior,
Oh, there are ten thousand charms.”
Come Ye Sinners, Poor and Needy J. Hart, 1759

All That’s Needed

Art, bravery, Children, contentment, courage, curiousity, daughters, Faith, family, grandchildren, hope, painting, Peace, sons, surrender, Vulnerability, waiting, wisdom, wonder

“The Lord is my shepherd; I have all that I need.”
‭‭Psalms‬ ‭23:1‬ ‭NLT‬‬

I have everything I need. (Psalm 23)

I let my granddaughter run a distance ahead of me when we walk. There’s freedom in her feet, there is an overabundance of curious independence in her thoughts.

Taking care to watch her and yet, letting her be, letting her grow.

Letting her become full grown.

Watching her thrive.

My daughter has a plant called either “snake” or “mother in law’s tongue”. She asked my wise aunt, how to keep it alive.

My aunt quickly replied,

“Get up every day and tell it good morning and walk away.”

I suppose whatever it needs to thrive is somehow either inside its stiff leaves, woven together roots, or maybe it’s in the air around it. Maybe it is the home.

A parable in Ezekial, a rarely read book in my Bible was happened upon this morning. The clean page had a faint underlined place,

“Will it thrive?” Ezekiel 17:9

The parable was written to compare the ways of two leaders, a warning about the king of Babylon coming to Jerusalem and the importance of honoring The Lord’s covenant. History often confounds me. Still, the three words “will it thrive” caused me to sit with this passage.

A riddle to be understood, I sat with these several verses on this quiet Friday morning. I read and read again, God’s Spirit assuring me there’s a truth for you here.

Two vines planted from the branch and seed of a twig transported by an eagle.

One grew and spread near the abundant water and rich soil, it grew outward, freely, vines spreading and branches putting out new boughs.

The other wrapped its young roots around the eagle and became dependent upon it for water and its hope to become a noble vine.

Yet, when it needed to be transplanted, free to grow, the roots would be found weak, easy to be blown away, bent by the wind and eventually wither.

I think of my attention to things God has given me to contribute my part in their growth.

Naturally, I think of my children.

A daughter who’s a wife and mommy, a leader in vocation and learning, outspoken and deeply caring.

A son who is Colorado and lives near a park known for its majestic cedars. A son, who subtly agreed when I mentioned another mother saying “every child gets to write their own story”.

“That’s right.” he said.

Fully grown.

They are thriving and becoming even more fully grown.

It’s a wonder to me, because I surely often overwatered, fertilized with unsolicited advice and often looked on too closely to circumvent uprooting of what I felt meant thriving.

So, how does growth happen best?

Not getting too wrapped in the care and nourishment of our thriving, established long ago by our Father.

If growth is intended for us, it will grow when we let it be.

Because of God, my growth and I have all I need.

Like the healthy plant that never gets watered. Whatever is within it has it thriving. Letting it be seems to be the answer.

I journaled in the margin of the smooth thin paper what God hopes I’ll let linger.

Roots that are planted in good places of abundance and then left to spread on their own are more likely to thrive than the roots I cling tightly to, so tightly they wrap themselves around me stunting the intended growth of my calling, art, writing, my contributions to others.

Roots allowed to spread without being overnourished, overthought or overworked are the roots of long living, lasting evidence of hope.

Of love.

Yes, it will thrive.

Let it happen. Let it grow. Contribute as needed, as led by the Creator of you.

Hope will grow and thrive.

Continue and believe.

“He lets me rest in green meadows; he leads me beside peaceful streams. He renews my strength. He guides me along right paths, bringing honor to his name.”
‭‭Psalms‬ ‭23:2-3‬ ‭NLT‬‬

A Better Fame

Abuse Survivor, Art, bravery, contentment, courage, curiousity, Faith, Forgiveness, grandchildren, hope, memoir, mixed media painting, obedience, painting, Peace, rest, surrender, Vulnerability, waiting, wonder, writing

Who can you think of past or present who is famous because of their peace, the most indescribably unknown person you know?

“These are treasures no bird of prey can see, no falcon’s eye observe.”
‭‭Job‬ ‭28:7‬ ‭NLT‬‬

“Bethesda”

I spoke with an author of three books recently. I sensed the ache in his voice as he told me about his writing after I talked about mine, the children’s book inspired by Matthew 6:26. We agreed to sell a lot of books, you must be famous, have a website with a bookoo of followers and be good at talking about yourself.

Just the conversation between us about self/book promotion was hard.

Before sunrise today, I thought of just how contradictory that seems. I’ve read lots of Christian books, some sort of trendy and insubstantial and some very resonant and worth returning to.

I thought of how we, as far as I interpret the words of Jesus, are not supposed to want to be famous.

When we say

“Make Jesus famous, not me!”

We’re supposed to be able to mean it.

And yet, an agent won’t return an email and a query goes unread because you have less than 5000 Instagram followers.

A few weeks ago, I had a skip in my step, a sense of a really cool possible art opportunity.

Time passed and it faded to “oh,well…”

I’ll reference trauma once here and that’ll be it.

If your needs went unnoticed as a child or young adult and you get well enough to try expression of your needs and talents again and nothing happens…

You decide it’s better to be invisible again.

Because invisible is what you know.

But, now this self-awareness feels less achingly deficient and more like

a better fame.

A realization of what I decided was my “treasure” was not my treasure at all.

Years ago, when I began writing, my heart set on a memoir about the possibility of hope, I was starry-eyed and optimistic and I told myself don’t be a chatty little woman who writes about Jesus.

Be authentic. Be real. Be truthful but not so truthful you hinder another’s hope.

And I thought I’d write a book about it all.

Now, I realize I may not.

Because the truth, my truth I am learning to be okay with is,

I don’t think I want to be famous. I think I’d rather be quiet.

That admission may be the kiss of death to being a published author or it may be the breath of heavenly fresh air to a weary striving soul.

Because writing, painting, being a published author are not my treasures, my peace and my peaceful sharing of my healing are. They are the treasures I hold and occasionally share in hopes of stirring curiosity over the same treasure for others.

I won’t stop writing and I won’t stop painting, often with crayon.

I’m just certain being a person who can be found by name on Amazon as an author or who has art that can be searched for and purchased has given me a taste of fame.

But never has fame made me famous, instead only made me wanting more.

Thirsty for recognition, parched for praise and aching for a dollar sign saying success next to something I made.

Eight years blogging. I suppose it’s fitting to write honestly today.

That feels like a quiet celebration.

Keep writing. It’s good to continue quietly and to believe.

Because healing is not dependent on fame, only on believing, believing like the lame man on the banks of the Bethesda.

“When Jesus saw him lying there, he knew that the man had been crippled for a long time. Jesus said to him, “Do you truly long to be well?” The sick man answered, “Sir, there’s no way I can get healed, for I have no one to lower me into the water when the angel comes. As soon as I try to crawl to the edge of the pool, someone else jumps in ahead of me.” Jesus said to him, “Stand up! Pick up your sleeping mat and you will walk!” Immediately he stood up—he was healed! So he rolled up his mat and walked again! Now Jesus worked this miracle on the Sabbath.”
‭‭John‬ ‭5:6-9‬ ‭TPT‬‬

Be well.

Open Hand

confidence, contentment, curiousity, grace, heaven, memoir, mercy, Peace, praise, Prayer, waiting, wonder

Barely had I written down the words, instructions to myself for today, when the sound of rain in subtle steady sheets caused me to rise.

I opened the door, left it open and watched the rain fall against the luminous backdrop of day.

The rose petals splattered softly like paint tossed towards a canvas.

Beauty.

I like rain in the morning.

Permission to be slow.

I made a list of “be’s” wondering if it’s just me that can’t get started, can’t accomplish in an orderly manner like before, can’t see things through because of changing direction halfway through or a focus blurred by one thing or another.

Anyone else?

I wondered.

Be still.

Be focused.

Be surrendered.

Be okay.

Be open.

With the last one came a visual. Me, in the car, me in my room, me in prayer, me in pause.

Walking and my hand opens to let God have a hope, a thought, a question.

With regularity, I open always my right hand and I give someone or some thing(s) to God.

Prayers that don’t just happen in church, happen any or everywhere.

“Give all your worries and cares to God, for he cares about you.”
‭‭1 Peter‬ ‭5:7‬ ‭NLT‬‬

Not until this morning did I think of the act of the surrender from my open hand, a stronger visual of letting it go, giving it to God over and over

Because I grab it again and I keep having to say sorry, I know it’s better with you.

Here you go, God. Please take this, help me to let you keep it this time.

Maybe I’ve turned a corner this morning, I’m thinking.

The “be open” added all of a sudden saying don’t close your fingers in a grip of what’s not yours to handle.

If you do this, how can I lay the very best things in the cup of your hand, the place I designed to gift you like a newborn in a cradle, new things, new joys, new chances,

New mercies every morning?

Open your hand to grace.

Grace and glory.

Glory.

Amen, hallelujah

Amen.

Something Small

Angels, Art, bravery, Children, contentment, courage, curiousity, Faith, freedom, hope, Peace, Prayer, rest, Vulnerability, waiting, wonder

“By trying to grab fulfillment everywhere, we find it nowhere.” Elisabeth Elliot

Morning Glories

I felt Fall wispy through the bordering trees on Monday morning.

August saying change is coming, change is coming, the kind that causes retrospect in the realization.

Small and sweet, the change.

God’s Hand
The Strangest Bloom
Early Color

The morning rain on Tuesday made the road a soft and sandy cushion under our feet.

We measured our bare feet and talked about the shape of them.

Walked towards the corner and remembered being brave and careful.

We stood still and saw the sunflower aurora against the blue sky border.

We climbed the little hill, twice the height of the two year old.

I’m thinking now of how careful she was, careful and brave.

I told her she was brave to climb the little hill to touch the flowers.

Told her I was brave too.

Later, I approached the room where I paint.

Brushes left soaking in murky water, a week’s worth of blue paint tinted water spilled as I chastised myself for being undisciplined, unsuccessful, “un” driven.

Cleaned up the mess and sat for a minute to add color to an acceptable but unfinished canvas.

Swirls, shapes, layers became a subtle oyster shell.

I left it, pleased in the satisfaction of enough.

A small thing.

Not a burden.

Rest for my soul.

Considered adding to the waiting in process angelic canvas.

Finish it. Share it, wait for the likes and notice.

No, not today.

Tonight, I chose small.

Gentle with myself.

Brave in small ways.

“Come to me, all who labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you, and learn from me, for I am gentle and lowly in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light.”
‭‭Matthew‬ ‭11:28-30‬ ‭ESV‬‬

What are you carrying?

“Even angels must find their wings too heavy sometimes.” Helen Van Slyke

“Praise ‘n Worship” (prints available, comment to purchase)

I’ve missed the part about the shared yoke with Jesus being easy to carry, being light.

But, now I see, now I sense it.

It’s something so small.

So small and easy to miss.

Continue and believe.

Quiet About It

bravery, confidence, contentment, curiousity, Faith, family, Forgiveness, grace, memoir, Peace, rest, Salvation, Stillness, testimony, Trust, Truth, Vulnerability, wonder
Touching Life

“The lines have fallen for me in pleasant places; indeed, I have a beautiful inheritance.”
‭‭Psalm‬ ‭16:6‬ ‭ESV‬‬

I wonder if anyone on a summer morning would pause there as well. Or just me, my eye drawn to nature, the way an old bent root is exposed through what once was the ground, now eroding to give way for the road.

For our morning walking.

We noticed the pillowy green moss covering the border and we’d never not touch it, the invitation to see new life juxtaposed with trees barren because of age.

We stopped and cupped the evidence of life in the palm of our hands, caressed the smooth earthen wall.

It was a small thing, gloriously small.

Like clouds thickly shifting, my thoughts are of the majesty of God’s hands swooping down to stir them up.

I am convinced of this actually and often.

Majesty

I’m in a group of women called “The Alabaster Girls”.

I joined this group of others I don’t personally know because I wanted to be one, one with other women who would if given the chance, pour out all I’d been saving up in my own vessel or jar and in the face of resistance, express my relationship with Jesus.

“…what she has done will also be told in memory of her.”
‭‭Matthew‬ ‭26:13‬ ‭ESV‬‬

Today, the leader suggested members of this group share our testimony. I paused like I’ve paused many times before.

My testimony of deciding to believe in Jesus is really small, sort of private, sort of “not sure it took” because my path forward has been imperfect.

So, I typed it in the comments and I saw my salvation in the truest way.

I thanked the group’s moderator for asking me to tell the story of my salvation, the one I sometimes felt was too small.

The story of my quiet day, quiet choice and quietly steady faith.

Jesus came to me gently and I welcomed Him in, in a quiet way.

I sat alone in my home, a single mother with two children. My Sunday morning thing became watching Charles Stanley, In Touch. I decided to believe what I still believe, Jesus died for me so that I could have life. It wasn’t a whole lot of fanfare and so, many times I’ve questioned the simplicity of it…now, I know that’s the greatest gift and truth, the decision to believe in Jesus can happen anywhere and I should never discount my testimony…deciding to follow Jesus, alone on a Sunday morning with a journal in my lap. God knew me even when I was so lonely and lost and He met me the most gentle way, knowing I was afraid of “being pushed around”. Wow. I’ve never actually written this out until today. God is using you, sweet Nan Trammell Jones.

The seed was planted way back then although not always meticulously tended or consistently fertilized by choices, prayer and worship.

Quietly, quietly and persistently I have grown and in my often “quiet about it” way, the way God made me, He is using my story.

Glorious Things

I am growing and others see Jesus in me in the very way God made me.

Quietly like the persistent beauty of green moss covering the ground, the evidence of goodness, of peace, of quiet confidence in God, the earth and all things knowing Him made more glorious.

Decide to accept Jesus. You will never regret what can never be taken away.

Continue and believe.

Morning Paused

confidence, courage, curiousity, Faith, fear, grief, marriage, memoir, Peace, rest, Salvation, Stillness, Trust, Vulnerability, wonder

“Here he stands! The Commander! The mighty Lord of Angel Armies is on our side! The God of Jacob fights for us!

Pause in his presence”
‭‭Psalms‬ ‭46:11‬ ‭TPT

I woke to a pleasant voice on my phone and then a message that alarmed me and led to surprise then chills followed by a pause. ‬‬

It’s almost noon and I’m numbed and lazy by the absorption of the truth of someone’s passing.

Sadly surprised.

I hear the hum of yard work in the back and front yard of the neighbor. Curious, I step outside.

a shower overnight
abundance
everything passes

Last night I looked from the window and thought how happy it made me, the limelight hydrangeas my husband decided to plant in a new place.

Twenty years married tomorrow and we have our first legitimate garden. Our granddaughter helped plant the tomatoes. The growth of zucchini has been outrageous.

I check it every day, a rectangular space near the fence.

Full of growth

And still growing.

I haven’t told my husband of the friend’s passing. They were close in a way I don’t know, seems he saw strength in him and I believe it was mutual, most likely unspoken.

Strength, yes.

Strength.

We’re not able on our own. The tiny plants become tiny tomatoes. The transplanted hydrangea dug up from my husband’s mama’s home is flourishing. The butterflies on the porch that enthrall us don’t last long.

Leave reminders though, reminders of the joy of their presence and the flutter of their wings.

A beautiful song.

“The Lord is my strength and my song; he has become my salvation.”
‭‭Psalm‬ ‭118:14‬ ‭ESV‬‬

God is with you.

Sing along.

Still There, Promises and Songs

Angels, Art, contentment, courage, curiousity, Faith, grief, hope, memoir, Peace, rest, Trust, Vulnerability, waiting, wisdom, wonder, writing
morning balloons

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.

The Promise

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.

evening balloons

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.

A Great Affection

Abuse Survivor, bravery, contentment, courage, curiousity, Faith, freedom, grace, kindness, mercy, Peace, Prayer, Redemption, rest, Salvation, Trust, Vulnerability, wisdom, wonder, writing
It is My Story

Twice I saw the man with the cross. Once on the southern part of town, the busy places, the reckless and impatient drivers, the scurrying about grocery shoppers in the days before Easter Sunday.

Then again downtown, on the northern side, blocks from the pretty shops, the sidewalk strollers, he was at an intersection.

The first time, he walked with the wooden cross, a display of his allegiance. He carried the beams joined together and he’d decorated the center with Easter colored florals. I seem to remember he himself was dressed in a jacket and was intentionally put together in a way that seemed to be his best.

At an intersection, two days later, he stood next to a bicycle. The bike, the big cross and this man.

I’d never seen him before.

I waited at the light and glanced to my left. Waiting as well to cross was a man in shorts, unshaven and gazing down at his work-boot clad feet, a faded backpack slipping down from his shoulder.

I didn’t recognize him either. In my years of homeless work I’d seen many like these two, just not them. I thought of their condition, I assumed mental illness and addiction.

I woke with regret over that supposed reason for their condition, their behavior and decision.

I drove downtown and across town yesterday hoping to see one or both.

I didn’t.

The Book of Mark’s introduction in the back of my Bible tells me that the writer is possibly anonymous, theological experts say he wrote his gospel based on Peter’s teaching. I love the tone in Mark’s words. I’m certain I would have been fixed on the words of Peter preaching too.

I read Mark’s description of John the Baptist and I immediately thought of the man on the bike with the flower adorned cross.

“Now John was clothed with camel’s hair and wore a leather belt around his waist and ate locusts and wild honey. And he preached, saying, “After me comes he who is mightier than I, the strap of whose sandals I am not worthy to stoop down and untie.”Mark‬ ‭1:6-7 ESV‬‬

John the Baptist, the son of Elizabeth, the unborn child who was moved by the presence of Jesus while in his mother’s womb.

It was his purpose to go first and then point to the one others like me should follow.

Maybe the man with the cross and the man crossing the intersection began a conversation as I drove home.

Maybe the assumed “crazy” countenance of the one honoring Jesus that day led to questions and then to answers.

Maybe the one I assumed would speak of Jesus was all wrong, maybe the man without the cross was the giver.

Maybe the man worn and weary, walking alone from somewhere had a story to tell.

Maybe the two shared their affection for Jesus.

Andrew Peterson has a voice of comfort, a call to consider love and understanding in most of his songs. Honestly, he beckons us to understand ourselves and then better understand others.

This song, this morning beckons me to consider the ways I don’t understand Jesus’ love for me and then to decide it’s not for me to understand completely, only to accept and believe it.

“And even in the days when I was young
There seemed to be a song beyond the silence
The feeling in my bones was much too strong
To just deny it. I can’t deny this. I’ve been seized by the power of a great affection
Seized by the power of a great affection.” Andrew Peterson

I took time to listen this morning, the song Pandora plays for me often. I remembered telling my first real boss that I chose to work in careers that helped others because of a little girl decision. I remembered being certain that I understood the burdens of other children and as a little girl, I knew I’d be called to help them.

I had no idea back then, that was Jesus calling me tenderly towards today, the notice of other tender hearts, the prayers for people as I see them on the street or downcast in the grocery aisle. The sharing of a book filled with birds for children that closes with the assurance of Jesus.

Not just for children.

I hadn’t thought of that shy little girl that I was for a very long time until I listened.

Listen here: The Power of a Great Affection

Days ago, a conversation sparked a reply from someone. I can’t even recall the reason, only the confident answer.

“That’s not my J-man.”

Some might find that irreverent, casual, or cocky.

Like the man walking the streets of my town bent by his cross, me comforted by a song that brings peace, Jesus is a personal Savior.

We call to him and he answers, answers to even “J-man” I believe.

He loves us just that way.

Personally.

Secretly, He knows us intensely and individually.

Loves us with a great affection.

It has no end.

I pray you know this great affection, that His story becomes yours too.

Continue and believe.

Sounds of Silence

birds, confidence, contentment, courage, curiousity, Faith, Holy Spirit, mercy, Peace, Prayer, rest, Stillness, Vulnerability

I remember the Paul Simon song that tells the darkness “hello” as he comes to talk to his old friend.

Unintentionally maybe, it sure sounds like prayer. Prayer, in the way the morning sounds soothe me, similar to nighttime solitude.

The Labrador is sprawled out in front of me, his legs lifted up in the air. I don’t disturb him. He’s circled the back yard and been fed and now reclining, a routine.

The ceiling fan whirs above me, the motor, the rhythm of the blades like a chorus of humming.

The birds are harmonious today, not just one or two near the window but gathered someplace in the periphery.

Their song is subtle.

It compels quiet pause.

Later, I’ll lunch with a new friend and attend a funeral.

I’ll listen. I’ll savor the words someone who reads my words without knowing me has to offer.

I’ll be teachable. I won’t see another’s wisdom as criticism.

I will listen to the words that will honor my friend. He was wise. He was kind. Words shared of him will be worth remembering.

I’ll sit a little longer here with plans to read John’s accounts of Jesus healing unlikely people.

I’ll savor the silence that’s not really silence, just a time of gratitude for mercy again this morning.

Mercy that keeps me teachable, makes me open to others and keeps my heart open to good change.

The sound of silence, my old friend.

The atmosphere that conjured morning prayer.

Lord, help me to listen.

I’m linking up with others prompted by the word “savor”

Five Minute Friday