I am fairly certain that even the birds know that the grounds at Hope are special.
I always see them either (like in this picture) waiting for something at the top of a tree, or calling out to another bird from deep within the woods. And in my mind, they come to Hope and wait, they come to Hope and call out, because they know that at Hope they will be found.
Yesterday, I left Russell's funeral early. For the past few days, I had been fighting what I knew was a losing battle as I tried to keep my emotional pain from spilling over to my physical self. It caught up to me at the funeral. The room started spinning and I sprinted out, trying desperately to outrun it.
The funeral had been at Holy Trinity and after I left, I went home, rested a bit, and then drove over to Hope. For the past six months, I have come to Hope every morning and walked, searching for God, looking for Him in the sunrise and in the rabbits and doves that live in the labyrinth.
But yesterday afternoon, I didn't walk.
Yesterday, when I returned to Hope late in the afternoon, I took with me a folding stool, and I found a spot of shade by the water, and I sat.
I sat and I waited like the birds do in the morning.
Leaves fell from trees. Birds flew overhead. Lizards scurried through the branches. A fish burped under water. A large truck rumbled down the road.
This morning, Reverand Joy said something toward the end of her sermon that brought me to tears. "God will find you," she said.
And maybe, I thought, that was why I had returned to Hope yesterday afternoon. I was feeling lost and sad and the thing about being lost is sometimes the worst thing you can do is to keep moving. Sometimes you have to sit still and let yourself be found.
There was such peace, yesterday afternoon. The sun was not too hot. The breeze was just cool enough. Everything passed me by.
Everything but God.
I always see them either (like in this picture) waiting for something at the top of a tree, or calling out to another bird from deep within the woods. And in my mind, they come to Hope and wait, they come to Hope and call out, because they know that at Hope they will be found.
Yesterday, I left Russell's funeral early. For the past few days, I had been fighting what I knew was a losing battle as I tried to keep my emotional pain from spilling over to my physical self. It caught up to me at the funeral. The room started spinning and I sprinted out, trying desperately to outrun it.
The funeral had been at Holy Trinity and after I left, I went home, rested a bit, and then drove over to Hope. For the past six months, I have come to Hope every morning and walked, searching for God, looking for Him in the sunrise and in the rabbits and doves that live in the labyrinth.
But yesterday afternoon, I didn't walk.
Yesterday, when I returned to Hope late in the afternoon, I took with me a folding stool, and I found a spot of shade by the water, and I sat.
I sat and I waited like the birds do in the morning.
Leaves fell from trees. Birds flew overhead. Lizards scurried through the branches. A fish burped under water. A large truck rumbled down the road.
This morning, Reverand Joy said something toward the end of her sermon that brought me to tears. "God will find you," she said.
And maybe, I thought, that was why I had returned to Hope yesterday afternoon. I was feeling lost and sad and the thing about being lost is sometimes the worst thing you can do is to keep moving. Sometimes you have to sit still and let yourself be found.
There was such peace, yesterday afternoon. The sun was not too hot. The breeze was just cool enough. Everything passed me by.
Everything but God.
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