There is Story Everywhere
I love walking, my hands open, the warmth of the sun on my face, and the quiet, gentle wind softly caressing my hair. There is a stillness in the motion that quietens my mind and brings relief to my heart.
It is a letting go of those things and events that I want to hold on to. Allowing the wind to catch and blow them away.
In every season, there is an expectation, a healing, a thankfulness that seeps into my thoughts and as I walk, I celebrate with the birds and the trees, the sun and the wind and rain, and the muddy puddles and the cold, blowing snow on my face.
I stop to watch a flock of birds take off, soaring, their white bellies glistening, wings spread out like minute airplanes and imagine what they see from up high. There is always celebration and worship in nature, and it gives me pause to stop and ponder the mystery of creation and Him, who is the Creator.
It is a sacred time
I am very curious and love to know why things happen the way they do. Reading helped me assuage this thirst, and at a young age, detective stories and mysteries were an intriguing gateway—a place where I could enter the mystery.
This perhaps led me to a love of science, the unknown waiting to be understood, engaging my imagination.
Motherhood was the ultimate place of unknowing
A place of discovery, a place that is new each day, seeing through the eyes of a baby, a toddler, an adolescent, a teenager, and now a young man.
For me, it became an exciting journey, travelling the hills and valleys of life with my son. Watching and learning continuously. Discovering ‘new again’ things of old.
There was always mystery out there. I embraced it with fervour. There was always a story unfolding, though most times, I was unable to grasp it. I have realized that this was where He asked me to follow.
‘Come and see what I am doing,’ God whispered, though I did not quite hear it then. His voice was muffled, mixed in with the other noises around me.
I love best the mothering… even though I am no longer needed much for it. I now get to watch the seed God planted raise his head and walk and soar toward the one that is the Light. I get to see what God is doing in a life that was given to me to nurture and grow.
I try my best to follow the story; the joys and sorrows of the journey through the eyes of Him, who entrusted this one to me.
I stumble, though… when fear creeps in, I work hard to stop the urge to control…. For me, this is a journey of growing toward the light, the letting go of those things I hold on to fiercely….
My growth comes in spurts and stages unbeknownst to me… surprising me, disappointing me, and sometimes terrifying me. So, I walk and watch and write, entering the mystery.
Writing, for me, is a space, a place that fascinates. I rest when I write. It takes me away from the noise of the world to a place of solace and comfort. Images and letters, forming words and sentences, give voice to my thoughts.
When pen meets paper, there is courtesy and permission to be authentic without judgment. I can write and right my wrongs and find forgiveness. I find it a place of grace and honour to ponder and examine words, feelings, and thoughts. A place where sorrow and joy mingle. A place of release.
Thoughts are like nature. In nature, there is a rawness and a story always happening.
Every day brings a sense of expectation.
In the writing, a story emerges that I didn’t know lay hidden
These pages are snippets of my journey, falteringly and stumblingly captured. I walk the arid desert, places of my heart closed off and held close to me. I look for pathways through these places in my heart. I stumble through hesitantly, rising and falling, only to fall again and to be gently righted by Him.
Writing saves me and helps me to find words to rebuild broken-down places in my heart. To allow the balm of Gilead, the salve of God, like an ointment, to pour over the red and raw wounds and renew those places that have crusted over.
By my front door, a grass ‘Morning Light’ rises in a silver fountain—slender blades striped in ivory, catching the sun like whispered grace. It bends with the breeze, fronds lifting like a quiet wave to greet the dawn. I long to do the same, to reflect the light of the One who shines in the darkness, to bend without breaking, and to tell the story that lies hidden in the journey.
As I muse in the walking and the writing, I think of the story He is writing in my heart and telling through me each day. I pray that I will live in child-like flexibility, expectation, and joy, reflecting Him with an open heart and hands to receive.
So, I walk and write... allowing my imagination to be directed by His whisper, joining Him in my story.
A story that unfolds slowly and stretches me uncomfortably and painfully, moving boundaries farther and farther, calling me to walk into Mystery and beckoning me into trust.
Sometimes, I hesitantly walk a few steps forward, and at other times, I turn and walk away, disgruntled, thinking He asks too much. I know He waits in patience. I know I will be back, and I know He knows I will be back. I know there is more to this story, and I want the more….