Sometimes I wonder
if Laura Ingalls Wilder knew a more beautiful life than me,
with the rippling brook and the towering trees;
breathing in air as it was meant to taste,
and walking on the same floor as the bugs and the bears.
Sometimes I wonder if anxiety is the absence of solitude:
always needing to attend to the next thing,
the next person who cannot live without your affirmation,
the next text chime,
the next notification;
posting things that are meaningless, to prove you’re not value-less.
Sometimes I wonder if we’re chasing the wrong kind of rest.
A checked-off checklist just leads to the next day’s checklist.
Busyness paralyzes.
Anxiety cripples.
Motionlessness numbs.
It’s as if we’ve forgotten how to breathe –
so we hold our breath longer, harder, tighter.
But sometimes I wonder if true rest is not motionless at all:
rocking in a hammock, floating down a river, dancing in the sunlight;
the stroke of a paintbrush, the swish of a hoop, the laughter of a child;
taking in the fading souls of those around you
who kids a hundred years from now will never have the chance to meet.
Living each day with the trust that comes from knowing
you’re not sovereign
anyways.
Sometimes I wonder if there was a reason Adam and Eve were placed in a garden instead of a castle.
There’s something about walking through the grass with the Lord
telling Him of my clenched heart, as He invites me to breathe deeply of Him.
He calls me further up and further in:
to abide in Him like a vine,
to soar on wings like eagles,
to grow like seedlings in good soil,
to trust like the birds of the air.
For He alone is the source of peace, of true Shalom
May my soul find rest in Him alone.
