Thunder in the early, dark morning, and thunder in the late, dark night.  Sunshine sandwiched between, and tall yellow flowers in the ditches.  I cannot compel my life into symmetry, but sometimes symmetry comes without my compelling.

I rediscovered these words from George MacDonald recently, and wrote them on a card and put them on my office wall, with the other bits of things I’ve stuck in amongst the Impressionists: One difference between God’s work and man’s is that, while God’s work cannot mean more than He meant, man’s must mean more than he meant.  They encourage and frighten, both at once.  They encourage, because when you’re muddling along with things that seem so meaningless sometimes, there’s that reminder of something larger, which encompasses the muddle and — maybe? — makes it beautiful.  But they frighten, too, because all the inconsequential things we say and do which we consider safe because they are inconsequential, cannot actually be so meaningless as we imagine — and what may be the meaning of things which we intend to be meaningless?

And so I am encouraged to write things and afraid to write things.  I ruminate and write, and rewrite, and then backspace again and watch the potential, unmeant meanings blink away.  And I tell myself that there need not be many words, that I may turn out the lamp and listen to the rain which is God’s work and which means exactly what He intends.  I am glad.

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