be still

I love the light when it’s fresh at the start of the day.  It’s like a clean window we’ve not yet touched with our fingers; like the diaphanous edges of some sacred space.  Sitting on the porch in the morning feels like resting in the palm of God’s hand as He slowly opens his fingers.  This morning, I promise myself that I will simply be still–very still–just watchful and thankful.  Half a year of asking, and I am learning that being devoted to prayer is as much about stillness as it is about words.

[bctt tweet=”Watchful, #thankful #prayer is as much about stillness as it is about words.” username=”elysa_h”]

I can see the moon in the early light, iridescent and textured, blurry a little about the edges, like a seashell on those other waters, just as a wisp of cloud draws away.  I meander without moving, because in stillness I find freedom.  I breathe in the smell of cut, dew-jeweled grass; the hint of honeysuckle vines climbing curvy over the hedge.  Slowly, I trace the wings of a broad cumulus falcon, an ethereal imprint frozen in flight, pressed against the sky like a bit of gauzy paper.  They will soar on wings like eagles.  It’s just a whisper, an echo of something written.  In the stillness, I soar.  The words rest against my shoulders, and with their settling, my own thanksgiving rises—for moments to be still; for life, green and growing and the slow wandering to water, my fingers lightly touching delicate leaves; for sipping–anything—but this morning, steamy coffee; for listening carefully; for deep breaths; for no rush. 

For me, practicing stillness is like lifting the lid on a precious collection of treasures I’ve gathered and held and kept, things I’ve stowed away before.  And now, I take them out again; I taste them yet again, rediscovering the elements worth savoring.  I can’t help but smile over this, for we carefully stow away so many collections and never find a time to remove them from their hiding places, from their pretty boxes, from the shield of glass behind which they glint, lonely.   These heart-held gifts cannot move us again if we never recollect them.

And so in the stillness I gather up treasures I’ve held before, bits of grace reserved for me:  wind chimes, tinkling; light bending through glass globes; worn wood made beautiful by history; delicate petals, buds; and not just finger-touched treasures but the ones I’ve felt–the graze of my children’s tender cheeks; the light in my husband’s eyes when he’s glad to see me; the power unleashed in prayer.

[bctt tweet=”In the stillness, I gather up treasures I’ve held before, bits of grace reserved for me.” username=”elysa_h”]

In a moment, the creak of the door, and Riley steps quietly through, carrying a glass of water.  The liquid sways as she walks.  She settles into the chair beside me, her eyes still thick with sleep.   She offers me the tiniest curve of a smile, and together, we grow still.