It seems as though each angered swing t'ward the heavens is answered in some funny form: a flock of birds over the sunrise, a touch in perfect time, a needed conversation. Tempting, perhaps, to ask what in the heck flying birds have to do with sorrow. The answer is: practically nothing. But, if you're anything like me, you've got your own version of a signal, your own soul-deep way of telling if the world will swallow your whole heart, or not.
Let's call them there birds: air bubbles. A puff to the face from a God who's got the world in tow. Let's call the hand on my shoulder a rapid awakening, as if sadness were a dream, and happy-abilities were a dream within it. Parking lot talking and office escapees and letters in the mail: all service the reminder need. It's easy to feel forgotten when you forget yourself. How gracious, then, that I'm not forgotten; I'm not alone on the earth. How gracious I've got people to poke holes in my solitudium, every now and again. Else, I'd swallow my heart whole (or not).
So, it's been a good week. I've been lifted. But,
I'd be lying if I said I no longer desired an Encouraging Word of Biblical Proportions. Where are my open-faced rocks and dancing columns of lava, my doormats watered by heaven, and not by the Vancouver rain? And where, hello, are the visions of my enemies, being tossed about in a sea recently parted?
Yes, I would find that encouraging.
Maybe it's generous of Him, then, to stay silent. As it turns out, if He truly spoke I'd light on fire. And if I'm honest, I usually assume his speaking = Worst Case Scenario of Biblical Proportions Wherein God Takes Away to Teach Lesson. If that's true, his silence is especially generous.
Because I've got myself afraid of hearing Jesus, I'll settle for wing-ed things and quiet drips of water, distant voices, muffled by the chasm of the creation of my brain. I'll breathe & bathe in the fresh air of all I've been given. I'll hope, because hope is one of the many good things. I'll pray; on the periphery.