but I trust His wisdom.
That place of solitude, of quiet simplicity.
I can hear my heartbeat there.
I can hear the birds.
I can whisper with Him and nobody hears.
I can cry.
I can give thanks.
I can question...and never really expect to understand the answers.
Mostly there aren't words. Only a strong knowing in my deep that He is there with me.
There doesn't have to be understanding.
I know He watches me.
I know He knows.
I reach my hands down into that cool blackness and scoop it up between my fingers.
I smell it, and I know I'm where I'm supposed to be.
This is my pulpit, my altar, my stained-glass, my sanctuary.
The grit between my toes reminds me, always, to never get too big for my britches.
I reach for the vessel and dip it into the cold water. I bring the refreshment to a weary soul.
I pull tender on the root of one planted to close to another. I stand up one who's fallen down from the storm.
I rid the shady places of the cheap imitations and picture the sin in my life as I strain to get all of the root.
What sin is acceptable?
What sin is there that I just can't see?
What sin will I yet defend and protect, even nurse?
What sin is drawing the sweet nectar of blessing, because I will not yield to the rival of my self?
I always feel the softness in my eyes and the smile at the corner of my mouth as I see how much he tries to look like fruit, and yet he will never ever be...
I remember my childhood, these same smells.
This same Sun warming the back of my neck.
These same lessons, so elementary then, and now built upon not by years of university, but by ages of living.
This curiosity of purpose. This careful shaping of my being.
I'm familiar with the drops of sweat falling from my forehead, watering this dust.
The work will never be finished...but it's not supposed to be.
There is always a season.
Some seem so quick, and some I wonder if they will ever end.
Some, even in the rains, are so very dry.
Some, even in the desert, are flourished with tears.
My back hurts, the same way it did then.
His Word always weaves in and out of the furrows of my brow.
His experienced timing I find to be impeccable, perfect and planned.
There is always this conversation of serenity, where I know my Spirit speaks on my behalf.
Sincerity is at the source of everything.
In this coming down into the ground I find He lifts me up.
When I've done all that I know to do,
I think about the fruit.
I wonder if I'll even see it.
I pray that it will bless richly.
He gives me just enough to bear, just enough to hold for today.
But one day the doors to the storehouses will bust loose at the hinges because of the overflow, and His blessing will not be contained.
I do the numbers on a scratch of paper...
124 tomato plants
23 stalks of corn
32 Moringa trees
1 head of lettuce
We've had quite a dialog this season...The Maker of Everything and I, and like David I wonder, who am I that He is even mindful of me? I am no more than the dirt under my nails. And yet, He'll be there tomorrow, waiting. He loves to walk with me, in the cool of the day, and I look forward to more unspoken conversations as we leave our footprints pressed upon the hallowed ground.