Yesterday was my 44th birthday.
As I headed toward the track for my scheduled run, I found myself moved to take a detour. I turned toward Les Prairies du Roy, a nice big field with a walking path through it. I didn't have a plan or an agenda, yet; I felt inclined to slow down, breath deeply, and listen.
The sun was shining, a rare sight in Loches in February. A gift.
Lifting my eyes up to the deep blue sky, I asked the Lord to join me on my walk. I knew, of course, that he was already there. What I really sought was a greater awareness of his presence--remembering how he used to take walks through Eden with Adam and Eve.
There was no glowing aura, no thundering voice, no rustling leaves. But somehow I knew he was near. And we walked.
I went automatically towards a known path, but quickly discovered that it was flooded. The impasse meant either the end of my walk, or a need to find another way. My eyes moved to different path. One I had often noticed but never taken.
A new year, a new path.
The road less taken was uneven and rocky. It meandered seemingly meaninglessly, turning when straight seemed possible. I was forced to slow my pace again to avoid tripping or twisting an ankle. I felt like a pioneer, urged on by the thrill of discovery. But safe because I knew my travel companion had not abandoned me.
Just when I began to think that the path I was on was no path at all, I saw a carefully placed bench. A place for rest and reflexion there on the rocky road. I didn't sit, I was on a quest. Yet I was somehow reassured by the bench. As if its presence validated my route.
While God didn't speak words to me on our walk, he spoke gently through the walk. As David and I seek his plan for our future, we somtimes come up against impasses. The way is blocked. The door is closed. But the journey is not over.
As way opens in another direction, it may not be smooth sailing. The path may be uneven and rocky, but that doesn't mean it isn't the right path. And so I'm learning to rest in the meandering rhythms of grace. Delighting in the journey rather than obsessing about the destination.
Trusting the silent guide who never leaves my side.
As I headed toward the track for my scheduled run, I found myself moved to take a detour. I turned toward Les Prairies du Roy, a nice big field with a walking path through it. I didn't have a plan or an agenda, yet; I felt inclined to slow down, breath deeply, and listen.
The sun was shining, a rare sight in Loches in February. A gift.
Lifting my eyes up to the deep blue sky, I asked the Lord to join me on my walk. I knew, of course, that he was already there. What I really sought was a greater awareness of his presence--remembering how he used to take walks through Eden with Adam and Eve.
There was no glowing aura, no thundering voice, no rustling leaves. But somehow I knew he was near. And we walked.
I went automatically towards a known path, but quickly discovered that it was flooded. The impasse meant either the end of my walk, or a need to find another way. My eyes moved to different path. One I had often noticed but never taken.
A new year, a new path.
The road less taken was uneven and rocky. It meandered seemingly meaninglessly, turning when straight seemed possible. I was forced to slow my pace again to avoid tripping or twisting an ankle. I felt like a pioneer, urged on by the thrill of discovery. But safe because I knew my travel companion had not abandoned me.
Just when I began to think that the path I was on was no path at all, I saw a carefully placed bench. A place for rest and reflexion there on the rocky road. I didn't sit, I was on a quest. Yet I was somehow reassured by the bench. As if its presence validated my route.
While God didn't speak words to me on our walk, he spoke gently through the walk. As David and I seek his plan for our future, we somtimes come up against impasses. The way is blocked. The door is closed. But the journey is not over.
As way opens in another direction, it may not be smooth sailing. The path may be uneven and rocky, but that doesn't mean it isn't the right path. And so I'm learning to rest in the meandering rhythms of grace. Delighting in the journey rather than obsessing about the destination.
Trusting the silent guide who never leaves my side.
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