I've dropped it somewhere down between the cushions on the lounge. My clarity.
Thoughts, like disorderly books, resist my straightening. Their gentle jumble is familiar. Home is a welcome backrub and the scent of orange peel on my thumbnail. We eat lasagne from Aldi and talk school.
I'm scattered by the attempt to be in so many different places. This happens periodically and guilt rises. The next step in the dance is to criticise myself for being here. So let's not.
I'll tell you the good news.
I've been sitting with the Book each day, and the Book's been reading me. I haven't been able to compose words about it these 31 days, but I've been thinking on the pure and right, the noble and praiseworthy. Pondering the race laid out before us - not life lived for success, but life lived to be made holy and presentable by grace.
The background is that I struggle to be religious in anything. It's my nature to resist helpful habits. Like a baby, the moment I seem to find routine, is the moment I change what I'm doing.
But through some inexplicable work of God, his word has entrenched itself in me. In the last couple of years, reading the bible has entwined with joy and contentment. It has been my breath, and the breath of God in me.
And be sure that I don't say this to boast in me. I am actually mystified about the reason for this deep stirring. I am not a holy or particularly godly person. It is purely grace from God to me. I don't really tell many people because it seems like a weird thing to share...
"God has made me passionate for his word. It makes my eyes prick with tears and my spirit soar."
My earthliness chuckles "What the...?", while the word whisperingly leads me into the truth. That this is the most precious thing that could ever grow in me.
linked with Emily's Imperfect Prose.