close and closer still

I am the only one awake in the house, probably the only one awake on the farm, except for Geoffrey our ever-hunting-and-prowling barn cat. The morning is so quiet. Not even a tree frog croaking. Just the buzz and click of my laptop and the hum of the refrigerator. Every window is still black with night sky. Strong coffee smells are warming up the room, making my mind more pliable and my eyes less bleary. I am wearing my much loved grey book club t-shirt and pink sweat pants given to me by my friend Marci when spontaneously one day we decided to dye every piece of fabric in sight the color turquoise, including the jeans I was wearing. The table where I’m writing this morning is covered in a bouquet of fading zinnias and half a dozen pieces of fruit plus the only attempt I have so far made toward autumn decorating. And a bottle of nail polish weighting down a story idea scribbled on a wrinkly paper towel.

My heart is incredibly still. Not everything is settled yet exactly, not by the world’s standards, but everything is alright. No, everything is amazing. I can see, feel, smell, and taste that every prayer we’ve uttered in faith is already answered. And that we will be seeing the proof of that slowly, bit by bit, in God’s time. They’ve been answered for years, really. And as new crises have happened in our life, those too have come paired with their own solutions, if only we would stop and focus and breath deeply enough to see. If only we would get close enough to the Problem Solver to no longer see the problem. I miss you Harvey. Thank you for teaching me that. It has changed my life.

Yesterday between working in the barn and playing in the garden, I stopped to feed my bees and the llamas all visited. Dulcinea was particularly kissy. I discovered this photo on my cell phone later and was overwhelmed with the feeling of being so close to God, like a little girl. The feeling of being face to face with Him, silent, cuddled, held with strong arms. Maybe like Scout sitting in Atticus’ lap in To Kill a Mockingbird.

A rooster is awake now, though the windows are still inky black. My husband of thirteen years will soon appear in the stairwell with a towel for me and a kiss, ready to stumble outside for Hot Tub Summit, as is our early morning custom. I will give him freshly brewed coffee that he bought for me at midnight last night because I foolishly left my can of it at book club. We will admire the last stars of night and maybe the first colorful streaks of dawn. We will take note of the llamas and cats and buffalo and horses and help each other kill mosquitoes but not honeybees.

Then later today we will work together at church, getting the physical space ready for spiritual work. We will pray together and face everything together then rest in this home we’ve made, this love we’ve curated. Keeping room for every seed of hope we’ve ever planted.

My friends are all facing big trials and heartaches, just like yours. My family is in crisis, just like yours. And I ache for them just as they have ached for me. But I feel such a flood of hope and assurance right now! The dawn is finally cracking open on a long, bitter night. I just want everyone to fix their sight on where that is happening. The Source of every solution, all the Love that we will ever need. Do not let anyone distract you with worrying or over-analyzing or thinking that you alone can do it. Be firm on that, okay?

Get so close that He is all you can see.

Happy brand new day to you! You are loved and you are needed to move that Love around this world. Be a conduit. Be happy.

It’s not time to worry yet.
~Atticus Finch
XOXOXOXO