She walks into my kitchen as she does every Wednesday at this time, ready for lunch and good conversation. I feel like the boneless lamb leg I roasted on Easter, tied together with twine to keep it from falling apart.
I’ve got to get out of here, I say to her firmly as I grab car keys and tell my 15 and 21 year old I’ll be back in 20 minutes. We head out into town for fast food. Fast.
And I turn on the vent. I start venting about my life plate spilling over—how I can hardly breathe—how there are so many to serve and it’s all good but I’m getting lost and the tip of my nose that’s just above the water’s surface is dangerously close to submerging. Breathe.
And she listens. That’s what friends are for, she tells me.
I don’t want to complain. I want to serve the Lord with gladness. But my flesh doesn’t cooperate with my spirit sometimes and I—don’t—like—flesh—limitations. Yet . . . .
There’s a reason why flesh runs up against limits here—in this time, in this place.
Flesh pain has Spirit purpose. Holy purpose.
He’s gently wooing me to Himself, again.
Come to me, you who are weary, He whispers into my soul, fresh and tender like spring breeze.
And I can hardly wait . . .
After my last obligation for the afternoon, the back door pushes open and I am on deck, camera around neck, yellow lab by side, and God all around as I head out into His grace of Earth’s embrace.
Branch buds pregnant with leaf, just waiting for His call to burst forth. Farm fields absorbing winter drink, warming and waiting for seed. Winged wonders flying hither, some high on thermal columns. Evidence of footed creatures long gone. And I can feel His hug.
We meander through fields, past ponds, and He leads me to a stopping place—a reflection space. Torn and turned earth with a winding path undisturbed teaches. I am a starving student.
This field will grow hay next year, God-willing, to feed our beasts in the barn. This year will be soybeans for human and animal alike. And straight down the middle is a swath of natural that will grow whatever the Spirit plants and nurtures. This is a flowing place—a low place. Farm fields have these natural flow spaces where waters run through. Wise farmers don’t work them. They neither turn nor plant nor reap. These spaces are for flowing waters.
Flowing waters. We all need such space in our souls—an undisturbed, untilled, unworked space where God’s spirit can flow so we don’t flood and waste the work and seed of bordering land.
Yes! A flowing place is what I needed today. A place to come and find rest for my soul. Father, Son, Holy Spirit space.
Flow through me, God! Bring me back to the brink, to the end of my flesh self, and all the doing,to this holy place of flowing. Restore to me the joy of Your salvation and uphold me with Your generous spirit. Psalm 51:12 (New King James Version)