There are days where I lose stillness.
More than quiet. More than neatness. More than being alone.
It's stillness of mind.
Most days my mind works on hyper-drive -- racing from thought to thought to thought to thought. And as it races I begin to race from thing to thing to thing to thing. And then as I'm racing around I begin to think that I'm late or behind or I need to do this or I must do this or is the laundry is done or the bills need to be paid or I need to start dinner or the kids need new shoes or the lawn is scraggly or I haven't done my quiet time yet or there are crumbs on the floor or the kids are yelling outside or I need to have a garage sale or I'll never catch up or Celiac Disease overwhelms me at times or I need to exercise and or and or and or and or.
Exhausted.
All day.
It's easy to do. I've got a plate {or plates} loaded with responsibilities and issues to take care of and things where I just have to wait {which is hard} and just daily life to do. I see catalogs and tv shows and blogs and others and think that I need to do all that stuff or have this or the kids need do that to be successful. I let myself compare and find myself discontent. I make myself keep busy. Moving. Trying to make up for my own insecurities.
There is no stillness in that. Only chaos.
I have to choose.
To live intentional.
Being still.
So I stop. I grab my luke-warm decaf coffee in the yellow Duluth mug and slip out to the deck. I sit down on the worn top step -- a step in need of staining -- and stare at the garden in front of me watching as the summer breeze rocks the pea blossoms back and forth. The setting sun dips into the horizon, and as it does the world is illuminated in it's late light splendor. The kids are laughing in the background as they kick the half-inflated blue and white soccer ball around the yard. I choose to sit. And close my weary eyes.
Lord, let me place these anxieties, these worries, these comparisons at your feet. You know my needs, you know my heart. Fill me with the peace that only you can give. Let me be still.
The list of things to do slows down. Becomes blessings.
This world and all it's urgent agendas begins to fade with the setting sun.
Now, at this moment there is stillness.
Do not be conformed to this world, but be transformed by the renewal of your mind, that by testing you may discern what is the will of God, what is good and acceptable and perfect. {Romans 12:2}
More than quiet. More than neatness. More than being alone.
It's stillness of mind.
Most days my mind works on hyper-drive -- racing from thought to thought to thought to thought. And as it races I begin to race from thing to thing to thing to thing. And then as I'm racing around I begin to think that I'm late or behind or I need to do this or I must do this or is the laundry is done or the bills need to be paid or I need to start dinner or the kids need new shoes or the lawn is scraggly or I haven't done my quiet time yet or there are crumbs on the floor or the kids are yelling outside or I need to have a garage sale or I'll never catch up or Celiac Disease overwhelms me at times or I need to exercise and or and or and or and or.
Exhausted.
All day.
It's easy to do. I've got a plate {or plates} loaded with responsibilities and issues to take care of and things where I just have to wait {which is hard} and just daily life to do. I see catalogs and tv shows and blogs and others and think that I need to do all that stuff or have this or the kids need do that to be successful. I let myself compare and find myself discontent. I make myself keep busy. Moving. Trying to make up for my own insecurities.
There is no stillness in that. Only chaos.
I have to choose.
To live intentional.
Being still.
So I stop. I grab my luke-warm decaf coffee in the yellow Duluth mug and slip out to the deck. I sit down on the worn top step -- a step in need of staining -- and stare at the garden in front of me watching as the summer breeze rocks the pea blossoms back and forth. The setting sun dips into the horizon, and as it does the world is illuminated in it's late light splendor. The kids are laughing in the background as they kick the half-inflated blue and white soccer ball around the yard. I choose to sit. And close my weary eyes.
Lord, let me place these anxieties, these worries, these comparisons at your feet. You know my needs, you know my heart. Fill me with the peace that only you can give. Let me be still.
The list of things to do slows down. Becomes blessings.
This world and all it's urgent agendas begins to fade with the setting sun.
Now, at this moment there is stillness.
Do not be conformed to this world, but be transformed by the renewal of your mind, that by testing you may discern what is the will of God, what is good and acceptable and perfect. {Romans 12:2}
