It’s eight pm in Texas and it’s been dark for hours. The man of the house is fed and the animals are too, so I’m deciding whether to go to bed or talk to you.
That my bed is winning so early in the evening feels shameful and weak.
But why? Who cares? The leaves on a million oak trees are inches from surrender. Why not me? And you?
The seasons are like good punctuation. Fall interrupts the steamy, hot breath of summer’s long sentences, with a cool sigh and a pause.
So go to bed at seven. Read to the kids by candlelight, gain a few pounds, wear sweaters to hide it, who cares? I came so that you might have and enjoy your life, Jesus said. So enjoy it, all of it. Why skim across it like a well-skipped stone? Sink in and drift.
We’re such drivers, overschedulers and striving little strivers, teaching our kids the metier of anxiety and fear – the very last thing we want them to know. So let us sit with the singular rhythm of fall, listening to the sound of the rain and our own heartbeats, eager to hear the still, small voice in our still, small space.
Of course, there’s laundry and lunches and the catbox is full, but nobody ever died of those things. We die of thirsty, broken hearts every day. But this God, the one who spells his name with a capital L, has a present for you. He wrapped it in browns and reds and gold and set it ablaze against a shiny, black night.
So here’s your permission, as if you need it from me. Go. Right now, open that gift. Gather your loves, whoever they are. Light a candle, turn out the lights, hug, sit and listen. Don’t rush off. Don’t run, invite Him in and wait.
Let us suck the marrow out of life in every other season.
But not this one.