Cherokee roses today. Thistles. Red clover.
Pecans, avocado, and smoked Gouda cheese with the chicken atop my salad greens.
Very few trees naked now.
Birds singing in the dim before I was fully awake. …And yet your heavenly Father feeds them.
It is vain for you to rise up early, to retire late, to eat the bread of painful labors; for He gives to His beloved even in his sleep.
And yet I lay awake late, next things taunting me with unwritten applications, unmade decisions.
They asked me yesterday where my heart is. How, if the thing you want is a good thing, but you cannot pursue it? Where then?
How, when I am torn between Tennyson’s “Lotus Eaters” — their “land where all things always seemed the same” — and his “Ulysses” “always roaming with a hungry heart”?
And still He calls His little one to rest, to trust, to hold to the things that are certain and then step, and step, and step.
I am not sure-footed, but His hands will not let go.