be still

In the beginning, nothing.  I stand at the edge of a wide, blank canvas.  From the street, as the first light cracks open the sky, I only see a broad, smooth, sandy plain, and beyond this, a dazzling sheet of silver glass.  For a number of days, I disconnect everything and step away, wiping it from my mind like so many crumbs left on the table after breakfast.  I leave the counters free of dishes, dry, clean.  I leave my mind open and quiet, and I walk to the sea.

Be still and know that I am God.

We love that verse but make little time for it.

It’s not until I step into the sand that I begin to see the bits of worn shell that give the shore its texture or notice the soft indent of a few lonely footprints.  The water gently rolls closer to my toes and then quickly retreats, leaving me alone to breathe.  Sometimes when I walk at home, I have to remember to inhale deeply.  I am drawn by some pressing current.

How do we begin to notice the movement of God, His reshaping Force carving pathways and softening edges unless we choose to make time for seeing?

Be still.

“I’m removing the social media apps from my phone,” Kevin says to me.  He says this the same week my friend and I walk along the road in the crispness of morning, talking about our children’s online relationships, how we have to say things to them our parents never said to us, things like, “You can’t have important conversations over text.  Do it in person.”  Sometimes, we have to step offline to be on for each other.

I think of this now, digging a toe into the soft sand, and smile.  It’s funny to me that to remember how to be present we have to disconnect.  The Spirit still calls us to Sabbath rests.  “Do no work,” God said of those holy days, describing rest as a sacred act of trust.  On the blank edge of the day, at the beginning of breath, I have space to remember the feel of God’s fingers on my shoulders, the sculpting power of His breath, warm against my neck.

I bend down and scoop up a bit of glass–bright blue like a jewel, salt-glazed–and wonder what sharp, broken, slicing thing it must have been before.  I’ve seen cosmetics jars this color, vases, candlesticks.  Whatever it was before, it could not have been this pretty.  I cradle it in my palm.  Me, I never finish a Sabbath walk exactly the same as I began. I come home with a fresh heart.  I wonder, does God cradle me just like this?

So today, this week, I wish you time enough to be still and know that He is God; the space to see Him making all things new; the quiet to hear the love in His voice.  I pray you make time with me to step away and watch Him move; that you and I can trust Him enough to be still.  Oh, how He loves us.  You, my friend, are loved.