It can all rage ugly and hurt and rending,
Here and there, pockets of deep peace,
Dipping candles yesterday. What a peaceful, contemplative craft. Talk about slowing down. The barely susceptible progress made with each deliberate dip made me think of spiritual progress; that I should not despair when it looks as though I am not growing spiritually. If God has promised to complete His work within me, He will do it, He is doing it, though I see the changes only through the lens of years.
A morning spent drawing with my son. Gregorian chants and the fifteenth century choral music wrapping us in beauty as we deliberately sketched and colored, slowly. A thousand thoughts pinged through my mind, on heresies currently rending the patchwork quilt of our church family, leaving my eyes reddened and my stomach hurting, on Ukraine, the tumult and the suffering and my prayers seeming so small against all that. But for all that inner noise and clang, I had to apply pencil to paper, and eye the lay of the feathers, and the attention brought a borrowed peace.
Playmobile ships, stuffed animals dressed as soccer players, presidents, and babies, riding “the train” (a.k.a. the couch). All his little conversations and sound effects and stories. I feel the joy of childhood filling up the room and my grown-up worries have to retreat for a while.
It can all rage and yet the seeds still germinate and the nasturtiums still reach for the sun. And my God is sovereign and good. And I’ll praise Him in the pockets of peace and in the turbulent places too. For Christ is our peace, and Christ is portable.