The clothesline squeaks when I reel it in. Fabrics of cotton white, weathered lace and dyed polyesters pull into my hands. I find those brief moments some of my most peaceful moments of the day. Through the brush and locust trees, drooping willows and old winding vines I see the creek sparkle. It dances underneath a setting sun and the refrain of a creation alive happens while I'm pulling in our rags.
What is it about the ordinary that is so appealing to me?
It seems today my hunger for knowing more and more and more has diminished. There are days I will digest my fair share of Spurgeon, Edwards and the like. I love to read and hear fathers, brothers, sisters of faith expound on scriptures; I have spent many an afternoon listening to sermons that unpack passages and open up the Word into a world of mystery and truth.
I love all of that.
But something happens in my heart when I can still smell the lightning from last night's thunderstorm on my crazy quilt hanging on the line. When my toddler is yanking at my garden dirt-stained jeans, and I'm telling her how her peanut butter and jelly is waiting, while I mentally tally my to-do list for the afternoon...
I find grace.
As complex and worthy of a lifetime of learning the Gospel is, it's also so unbelievably simple, that it meets me while I'm shredding zucchini and wiping the table down at night.
When the clouds twirl in scattered moonlight rays, and the big dipper swings low to capture my silent prayers, I feel the inexplicable, magnificent, perfect love of God come close.
Didn't David spend hours watching herds, doing his work and writing songs all while discovering the mystery of God? Tonight, I feel less like a member of the royal priesthood, and more like a fragile clay jar. I'm in better company with the guy wandering the hillsides, and not the man in the temple.
Tonight, I sat to write about so many different things. So many non-whimsical things. Real things. Life things. Good things.
And yet, when my fingers hit these keys, all that comes to mind is all this. All of the above and all not mentioned. These typing fingers recall my daughter's sand-colored curls as she stretched across my lap and drifted to sleep. These eyes weigh heavy and when they close I see night sky. My heart is eager for new, and as it beats, I hear the prayers that fell against cotton earlier today.
All these things, the clay. The brown. The ordinary. They are holding the holy and I hold them out to be filled to the brim.
linking up today with the Soli Deo Gloria Sisterhood