Wednesday, October 8, 2014

October 8th

The mornings remain dark and I catch myself looking up frequently, wondering if now there will be light and being surprised by the dark instead. Merissa was already in her highchair eating breakfast when I finally looked up to see the white painted fence reflecting the first of the sunrise.

Above it, the tops of the pines were drenched in red gold light, the first light. By the time the light moved down, it would clarify and brighten, dart through the dining room window and land on the far corner of the kitchen, that beam strong enough to dazzle the eyes whenever walked through.

"Thank You," I whispered inwardly, while measuring oatmeal. "Thank You for the light each day."

Those lights are for a sign of My faithfulness, My steadfast, covenant love, Jesus answered.

It filled me with wonder, to know God in a spiritual way amid the mundane, solid realities of life. I was drowsy with peace and well being, my whole being drawn slowly into love and worship from my spirit outward. I was giving away love and receiving it at the same time, without words and with no fear or hurry or drama, as simple as breathing.

My beloved, My own. His voice, quiet, sure and divine, fell softly into my spirit and illuminated me from the inside as I stood in the middle of my physical world. I saw it all over again- the smooth rim of the ceramic bowl, the glass bottle of cinnamon and the cheap paper salt shaker.

And He set them in the garden, Jesus reminded me, smiling.

In the garden, in the physical world, He set them there. That was the plan from the beginning, to be present and tending to the good creation, the living, blossoming, changing riot of the physical world.

Go on loving as you do here, He encouraged me, reminding me of all the practical and tangible ways that I served and loved. They are small and hidden, and I think because of that, they are my spiritual discipline, the ways in which I grow into faith, hope and love.

I assented without words, knowing that He would continue to guide me. "But You walked with them there, in the garden," I said to Him, remembering it and filled with longing. In that physical space, He was with them as it was meant to be, and as it will be at the end.

"I miss You."

I'm with you now.

So I put aside the longing for later and went to the computer to write this dialogue down. When I was finished, I looked up to see the whole downstairs lit within and glowing with golden October light.