It’s been foggy, as if we’ve been wrapped in a thick, wool blanket of grey, the scratchy kind. My brain feels it too, in waiting and search and looking for direction. And I think that when you are in that place, all this other noise comes along and tries to get in the way. All this other noise wants you to believe that everything is a sloppy mess, served with a side of despair, but it’s not.
Everything is fine. I’m mostly good, just exhausted.
The emotional range of three year old may be great and endless. Piles may be waiting around, but piles don’t have feelings. And sure, the dreary limbo of February may be in full swing. Plus, this and that and that too, but…
Still.
Yesterday, the sun melted away that scratchy blanket and filled the great big blue with the most radiant light. Life-giving, wondrous rays burst through the windows and I drank in every last drop. I found myself on a bench in front of the frozen lake, with a large coffee in hand. I closed my eyes, sipping the sweet nectar and relished in the vitamin d. And I stayed until I realized it was cold.
On that bench, I was reminded that noise is just noise and not always true, but it’s awfully loud if we keep listening to it. That part of the waiting process is for reasons we can’t explain or identify. We must surrender to the waiting and turn down the noise, so that we remember what is real and honest and lovely.
And let the sustaining grace warm you inside and out.
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