It’s been a week since I’ve had time alone. Time to breathe in an uninterrupted space of silence. I need to be reading. I’ve committed to write. I’m behind on the very beginnings of research. But the bright spring morning beckoned me to come out and play. The budding trees wooed me from afar with the power of Odysseus’s sea sirens. I was drawn away from my steadfast commitment to duty into the quiet place of simply being. A newly discovered jogging path was the backdrop. A recently acquired CD the musical score. Virgin territory were both. Step after step revealed increasing evidence of renewed life. Glimpses of diamonds bobbing atop the surface of the trickling stream, I was drinking in grace.
Then the still, small voice gently whispered, “My child, listen to my instruction. Open your eyes and see. Every budding flower teaches of hope. Every stream, my peace. Every bird, my provision. You want wisdom. You want understanding. You fill your hours acquiring words from pages written by learned men, all for the purpose of finding revelation. You settle for notes taken by my children, when I have offered you a playdate with the Author of the Story of the World. An excursion filled with all that is infinitely real and beautiful and true. “
I had hoped to leave the real world behind,
but to my surprise,
it was the real world that I had found.