Even though it’s set to rain later today, I feel hope rising.
I’ve mentioned it before…
This joyful expectancy that wakes up with me on many Sundays.
There’s even a cleansed feeling to it, a freedom that accompanies the hope. I’ve laid out prostrate on numerous Saturday nights feeling some kind of miss and stir, for it to only completely dissipate by the break of Sabbath morning.
Maybe this is a grace that’s given me as I forge through Sunday mornings alone these days. Daddy is up and ticking and off to church much earlier than the kids and I. And goodness, while I very much affirm and embrace this new occupation, I have had moments where I’ve felt gypped by it. The pouring in that Sundays used to be, felt like they had been somewhat stolen as my husband started ministering on those days.
So perhaps this sweet calm that attends me most Sabbaths, is a head pat from Heaven.
I’m outside. The sun is about to peek, a blue jay is eating the seed my boy provides, and a dove just joined him. Squirrels are railing the fence, a soft breeze is hitting pine trees, and the warmth that has been building in my soul to form phrases is finding its release.
It was there almost all week. That’s why I’m allowing sentences to flow on a Sunday. Like the hope that’s been rising up on the first day of the seven, the desire and pull to weave words as of late has been high and full-bodied. Almost like I’m being filled up for something.
It’s making me wonder why. And it’s making me have the urge to slip into the strong call. Maybe I’ll get to visit this writing post here a little bit more often over the next several days? It would pleasure me much. Or perhaps it’s some other pen endeavor? Could be.
The black and white chickadee that swoops in all small and sweet every day here, just perched on the feeder.
My chickadees will be up and pecking for breakfast soon, too.
Indeed, I was right.
Here comes one now….
