brightness after rain

"He is like the light of morning at sunrise on a cloudless morning, like the brightness after rain that brings the grass from the earth." (2 Sam. 23:4)


Oh, God must be so beautiful!

This was the way my morning began, a quick dash outside for photos before Pete left for work, putting off my shower 'til later, finding joy in the morning, and enchantment where I least expected it.

It's been a lovely day, and I am so tired, but I feel rested. My fingers are barely typing for the cool air that was warm earlier, tossing my new living room curtains, enchanting Piper, and mercilessly teasing our now-house cat.

Last night, it stormed. I stayed up late, reading L'Engle's The Irrational Season until my eyes wouldn't stay open, wondering that God became man as Jesus, remembering how He calmed the storm, deciding not to be afraid of the thunder, jumping anyway, wishing the lightning away. L'Engle's words sank in soft and deep: "When I think of the incredible, incomprehensible sweep of creation above me, I have the strange reaction of feeling fully alive. Rather than feeling lost and unimportant and meaningless, set against galaxies which go beyond the reach of the furthest telescopes, I feel that my life has meaning. Perhaps I should feel insignificant, but instead I feel a soaring in my heart that the God who could create all this - and out of nothing - can still count the hairs of my head." (L'Engle, The Irrational Season, p. 11)

A God who knew ahead the whisper of my conversation with Pete, the quiet "you weren't ready" pinging soft off the walls of my heart. And I reached tentatively for trust, and rest, and fell asleep, and woke up to today. To the moment. To a couple of hours with a babysitter and getting things done. And now to a blog post that is only half-coherent, but written.