As I write this article the day after Christmas, I can relate to Elijah in the cave. It seems there have been plenty of winds and earthquakes and fires around here this year, and of course the holiday season brought its usual share plus a few extra thrown in for good measure. Sitting next to my tree in the quiet this morning with a cup of coffee, I look at this scripture and find … I can just barely hear it. If I just stop and listen for a moment, the “sound of gentle blowing” is in the background.
How I want to hear Him in the stillness!
We moved to Florida about ten years ago now. Coming from the edge of the desert in Texas, where strong winds brought dust storms and gentle blowing felt like a hair dryer, the many lakes, rivers and palm trees were a delightful and welcome respite. My children love to play in the ocean and I’m a big fan of the beach. A couple of years into it, though, I started noticing something missing. It took me awhile to put my finger on it, and then one day I realized what it seemed to be: here there is no need to snuggle in, to cozy up, to “hunker down.” When the weather is pretty much always beautiful, people don’t feel a need for their homes to be a refuge—after all, refuge from what? We’d spent many years in New England where my husband spent his early years, and I’d grown up in Nebraska, so we were familiar with the true need for comfort and hiding out from the weather once in awhile.
I think we all have a need to hide out from the weather of the world, even if the thermometer doesn’t indicate it. Our homes, be they northern or southern, need that touch of cozy—soft blankets piled high in a basket, a fire in the fireplace, teapot whistling on the stove. Because regardless of the weather, it’s sometimes pretty harsh out there.
Today I’m jealous of the snow falling further north along the East Coast. That’s something else we miss here, of course! The pitter patter of little feet is constantly heard in my house, and I’m sure in many of yours, too. My front walk is generally a conglomeration of bikes with bells dinging and skateboards whizzing by and the dog’s barking at their antics. Unfortunately, there’s also a lot of sound coming from the busy road outside of my house where people are constantly coming and going to the grocery store and gas station nearby, with accompanying horns and yelling and quick braking.
I remember childhood days when the snow piled up so high our doors would barely open, and we were housebound for a day or two. Of course that didn’t stop us from piling on the clothes and coats and boots and mittens and hats to tramp out in the glittering whiteness, making snow angels and tunnels and forts in all that wonderful fluff. But the thing I remember best (and the thing I think I’m missing most now!) is the deep quiet that accompanied that snow. Blanketing everything in insulating whiteness, snow halts an awful lot of human endeavors … if only for a moment.
I think we all need to halt once in awhile.
The busy-ness of our lives can take a toll. Constant going, going, going and working, working, working and serving, serving, serving exact a cost we may only find ourselves aware of when we reach the breaking point, and when you’re a mom you tend to just keep going like some motorized Energizer bunny, paying no attention for your own need to STOP. And so I pray the blessing of snow for you, dear mom, at this, the beginning of a new year. If not the actual icy white stuff, at least the feeling of it, the stillness of it.
Halt! Be quiet! Be still!
L.B. Cowman writes in Streams in the Desert,
“I do not believe that we have begun to understand the marvelous power there is in stillness. We are in such a hurry—we must be doing—so that we are in danger of not giving God a chance to work. You may depend on it, God never says to us, “Stand still,” or “Sit still,” or “Be still,” unless He is going to do something.”
Isn’t that good? HE is going to do something.
Hallelujah! And Happy New Year!
Share and Enjoy:
"
No comments:
Post a Comment