Sometimes God Wants You to Get Uncomfortable


She stood in front of the room as we were closing Bibles and shuffling papers. “Some of you might be feeling a little intimidated, a little afraid, maybe a little overwhelmed,” she said. “Some of you might feel like you’re in over your head, and maybe even doubting whether you can do this thing.”
I thought I knew what she was going to say after that. I assumed she’d tell us that it was okay; that it would get better, easier. That we’d find writing to be not as scary or as challenging as we’d anticipated.

But she didn’t say that.

What Evi said that evening in front of a class full of new writers surprised me. “It’s true,” she said. “Sometimes writing is hard, and sometimes it’s scary. And sometimes God wants us to get uncomfortable.”
I admire Evi for telling it to us straight that night. I think in her shoes I would have sugar-coated it. I might have told a room full of nervous, new writers, “No problem, don’t worries, you’ve got this thing.” But I don’t know if that would have been the whole truth.

The whole truth is that writing is hard. Just like faith is hard. But the times in which both writing and faith have been the hardest, the times in which I’ve had to step the farthest out of my comfort zone, are the times in which I’ve grown the most and grown closer to God in the process.

Like taking that first step toward belief after not believing for so long.

Or joining a small group Bible study when the thought of praying with strangers made me hyperventilate. 

Like standing in front of more than 500 people at church to share my faith testimony.

Or emailing the next query, pitching the next story. Exposing myself to the next rejection.

Or telling someone out loud that I was a Christian writer for the first time.

In all these hard moments I exposed myself. I allowed myself to be vulnerable. And I learned to trust, to rely not on myself, but on God.

The challenging truth about the Gospels is that God’s deepest desire isn’t for us to be comfortable. While I believe he loves me, and I believe he wants me to be happy, I also believe that he wants me to be uncomfortable, at least sometimes.  Because it’s in discomfort that I am much more likely to grow closer to him.

When was the last time God asked you to get uncomfortable? What happened?
With Emily's Imperfect Prose:

And Jennifer's God Bumps:


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A Letter of Gratitude to Rachel Held Evans


Today author Rachel Held Evans releases her second book, A Year of Biblical Womanhood, and in honor of her and this momentous occasion, a group of friends and admirers have gathered here with their personal letters. Here's mine:

Dear Rachel,

I still remember the day you left a comment on my blog. I don't recall exactly what you said, except that it made me feel happy -- validated and, well, smart. I remember how excited I was - Rachel Held Evans, published author of Evolving in Monkeytown (a book I'd read and loved) had stopped by and talked to me -- me, the wee blogger with 14 followers.

Your comment gave me the confidence to email you. I peppered you with a bunch of green questions, silly questions like how many times a day I should tweet and how many readers I needed to "get published." And you graciously replied, patiently answering all my inane questions, encouraging me, holding my hand across cyberspace. A few months later you agreed to look at my book proposal and manuscript, and then you offered to refer me to your agent. Because of your generosity, because of your willingness to take a chance on a scared writer with a big dream and no clue how to make it happen, I was able to make a big leap in this journey toward publishing. I'm certain it would not have happened without you.

I haven't forgotten that generosity, Rachel. I haven't forgotten how essential it was for me to feel like someone was invested in me as a writer. I haven't forgotten how your confidence in me made all the difference. I remember it every time I get an email from a new writer, someone with a question, someone who needs a little reassurance and guidance, someone who needs a hand.  

Thank you for demonstrating that generosity and kindness do indeed exist in what sometimes feels like the dog-eat-dog world of publishing. Thank you for living out Paul's words:  You love others and delight in honoring them. You offer help to God's people in need. Your gift (one of many!) is to encourage. (Romans 12:8-10).

Rachel, may God bless you and keep you. May he make his face shine down on you and be gracious to you. May God turn his face toward you and give you peace. Amen.

And thank you.


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Hear It on Sunday, Use It on Monday: Where to Look for God

 
When I was a little kid I thought the tabernacle was actually God’s house.

The tabernacle at our church was ornate and glittery-gold, and it sat on its own mini-altar off to the side of the main altar under a glowing red lamp. I assumed God lived in that fancy box as a small, but no less intimidating version of himself, and I thought the red lamp was his nightlight.

A thick curtain was draped just behind the tabernacle’s gold door, and the priest would gently push this aside, reach his robed arm into the mysterious space and pull out the chalice of Eucharist as we watched from the pews in hushed, reverent silence. I always strained from my place in the pew during this solemn ritual, craning to catch a glimpse of God, who I knew was seated on his miniature bejeweled throne behind the curtain. And I was always frustrated and disappointed that I could never quite see far enough into that secret, holy place.

I was always disappointed that I couldn’t see God.

Solomon, it seems to me, got it right, when he said this in the verses we read this week from 1 Kings 8:27-30:

“But will God really live on earth? Why, even the highest heavens cannot contain you. How much less this Temple I have built!” (1 Kings 8:27, NLT)

On one hand, Solomon is flabbergasted, amazed: how can God, the Alpha and Omega, omniscient, omnipotent, awesome God, actually live on earth, down here with us, amongst we flawed and sinful people? How can that possibly be?

On the other hand, Solomon knows that even the most elaborate, elegant temple, one built specifically to honor and worship him, cannot possibly contain a God whom even the heavens cannot contain.

Just like I mistakenly assumed that God lived inside the tabernacle of my childhood church, I still, as an adult, find myself trying to contain God in a particular place or define him in a particular way today. I try to squeeze him into a box, enclose him within boundaries that make sense in my own small mind. I try to limit a limitless God, in part because his power, his infinite love and grace and his all-encompassing, indefinable nature overwhelm me.

Solomon knew the truth, which is that God is in every place and in every person. Not just inside the tabernacle or within the walls of the church. Not just in the minister and the missionary. Not just in the faithful and the devout.

God can’t be contained in a particular place or a particular person. His temple is our church, yes. But it’s also our kitchens, our workplaces, our backyards and our very own bodies and hearts.

Every space is holy. And in his eyes, every person is holy, too.

Do you sometimes look for God in the expected places, like in church, and neglect to see him in your ordinary everyday surroundings?
How do you train your eyes to look for God in your everyday?

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Weekend Meditation: Nothing is Useless


So, my dear brothers and sisters, be strong and immovable. Always work enthusiastically for the Lord,
for you know that nothing you do for the Lord is ever useless.
1 Corinthians 15:58




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I Assumed


 
Deidra and I met online first, even though we actually live in the same town, less than two miles from one another. One day, a few weeks into our online friendship, I popped over to her place and saw a photograph, beneath which was a caption identifying the women as her mother and her sister.
 
I looked at the photo. And then I read the caption again.
 
...I'm over at Deidra's place guest posting as part of her "31 Days in My Brown Skin" series. And yup, I'm about to tell a wacky, kind-of-awkward story about Deidra and me, right there at her own place. Meet me over there? {gulp}
 
 
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The 20-Minute Sabbath


Recently I launched a new initiative to “Honor the Sabbath.” It’s a commandment after all, one of the big ten, so I figured it must be pretty important. Plus it sounded really good in theory; honoring the Sabbath sounded relaxing. Peaceful. Quiet.

The trouble is, I have children. Two young boys.

Boys who require prepared meals, clean dishes, folded tee shirts, lettuce chopped for the pet lizard and scattered beta fish food vacuumed from the bedroom floor.

Boys who need help with long division and book reports, kitchen cabinets stocked with snacks and peanut butter and raspberry jelly sandwiches sealed into plastic baggies for school tomorrow.  

Boys who are decidedly unquiet.

...I'm writing over at Her View from Home. Join me over there for a 20-minute (or maybe two-minute) Sabbath?

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Hear It on Sunday, Use It on Monday: When God Says No



 
We sat around the dining room table, our chairs pushed back, plates clean, napkins rumpled. As the candlewicks sunk low into soft, hot wax, the conversation turned serious, as it sometimes does when stomachs are full and wine glasses are half-empty.
 
One friend told us about the time she and her husband came close to moving to Chicago for a new job. All the signs had pointed in the right direction, she said. All the doors had opened…except the last one.

Another friend talked about a ghost writing opportunity he’d declined. The book had gone on to the New York Times bestseller list, sold a million copies. It had been the chance of a lifetime, and he’d been so close. But it hadn’t happened. 

Around the dinner table that night we talked about the times when God says no.

We clearly understand when he says no to bad plans -- sinful, half-baked, selfish, cockamamie plans. But the good, God-minded plans? We assume that if our intentions are pure and we’ve been “good,” that it will all work out. That if we are patient and faithful, he will eventually say yes.

Except that sometimes he doesn’t. Sometimes God closes the door. And it doesn’t always make sense. Not while it’s happening. Sometimes not even a long while later.

In this week’s reading from 2 Samuel 7, God ultimately says yes to David…but only after he says no to something David deeply desires.

The story opens with David in his prime. Life is going well: he’s now king; settled into a sumptuous palace, well-rested and content. And suddenly it occurs to him that while he’s living the good life, God’s out there housed in a crummy, dilapidated tent. So David decides to rectify this unfair situation. He decides to build a temple, a new house, to make things right with God.

And God’s response is basically this (my paraphrase):

So you think you’re the one to build me a house to live in, do you? I haven’t lived in a house from the day I brought Israel out of Egypt. I’ve been moving from place to place with a tent as my dwelling. And you know what? That’s been just fine by me.” (2 Samuel 7:5-6)

Basically, God tells it straight: If I wanted a cedar house, I would have asked for a cedar house. I’ve got other plans for you. Sometimes, no matter how perfect our plan looks, no matter how well we think it’s aligned with God, it’s not what God wants. And so, like he did with David’s plans for building the temple, he says no. And then, like David, we have two choices. We can fight God, and push and pull and demand that the plan unfolds as we see fit. Or we can acquiesce. We can hand the plan back to God and say, I have faith.

We didn’t reach any radical conclusions that night around the dinner table as the candle wicks burned out and the smoke wisped toward the chandelier. Our talk eventually turned to other topics until finally we stood up, stretched and carried our plates to the kitchen sink. But I’m still thinking about that conversation a year later, and I have this to add:

It’s true, sometimes God says no. And we may not like it or agree. But we trust that even in his no, there is a yes, waiting to be revealed.

Has God ever said no to one of your plans? If so, were you able to see how a yes was eventually revealed? Or are you still waiting?


A little note: today is my friend Jenn LeBow's last Mercy Monday link-up - the prompt is "What Mercy Means to Me Now." Got a story? Stop by Jenn's place and link up!

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Weekend Meditation: The Power


And if the people of Israel turn from their unbelief, they will be grafted in again,
for God has the power to graft them back into the tree.

Romans 11:23



 

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When the Cows are Too Close to the Kitchen


Noah decides he’s a vegetarian on the drive out of town, as we bump over the gravel road, leaving a smoke screen of dust sitting like a gauzy curtain behind the mini van.
“Right now? Right this very minute, you’re suddenly a vegetarian?” I fume. We’re headed to a friend’s farm for lunch. A lunch of grilled hamburgers, beef from our friend’s very own cows. I’m puzzled. Noah typically loves hamburgers.
“Where in the world do you think the SuperSaver meat comes from?” I ask. “I hate to break it to you, honey, but Peter's cows on the farm are the exact same kind of cows that get plastic-wrapped and stacked into the meat case in the grocery store. The same kind of cow that’s sitting in a package in our freezer right now.”

“It’s just too…too…too close, with the cows, like, right there, practically right outside the kitchen,” he says quietly, tears spilling over.
“You will eat the meat,” I declare, turning to glare at him in the back seat. “You don’t become a vegetarian today just because the cows are too close to the kitchen.”

I admit, I was hard on Noah that day. Especially when I consider the fact that I’ve balked from facing a harsh reality, too.
I think about all the ways I opt for the plastic-wrapped, neatened-up version instead of facing the hard, ugly reality. Like when I write the check to the local food pantry instead of showing up in person to look a homeless man in the eyes as I place a baked potato on his plate.

Or when I happily sponsor two girls in Tanzania and one boy in Bolivia, patting myself on the back for my compassion and generosity, and then balk at the thought of traveling to a third world country in person, to glimpse a shack the size of my laundry room for a family of eight and raw sewage flowing down the streets.
Or when I know I should pick up the telephone and call the grieving friend, but I send an email instead, afraid to come too close to her hard, raw pain.

I know what it’s like to keep the cows a safe distance from the kitchen. I’m familiar with plastic-wrapped faith and saran-wrapped service.
All turned out well at the farm. Noah swallowed his fear. He sidled up close to discomfort and he took a bite. He ate the meat. I watched him from across the table, nodding encouragement as he took one tiny bite, then another.

He ended up eating half of the hamburger. Brad finished the other half on the sly. “Good job, Noah,” I whispered later, as we strolled through blue stem grass toward the pumpkin patch. “I know that was hard.”
“It helped that I couldn’t hear them mooing,” he admitted, and I laughed, nodding. “Yeah, I know,” I said, my hand on top of his sun-warmed hair.

So what about you? What are some of the ways you keep your faith or service all tidily wrapped up in plastic?


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When Your Dream Turns Out Differently Than You Imagined


I sat at the kitchen counter last week and signed a book contract while Brad snapped my picture. That’s right, a real book contract with a real publisher [Baker Books!].
There’s a catch, though: the contract is not for what I consider my book, my memoir – the book that took me 2.5 years to write and another 2 years for which to land an agent. It’s not for the book that I started writing when my now seven-year old was still an infant. It’s not a contract for the book of my heart – the book that led me back to God.

It’s for an entirely different book. I admit, when Rachelle called me last May to tell me Baker Books was looking for someone to write a book called 50 Women Every Christian Should Know, I was lukewarm. After all, this wasn’t my dream, to write this kind of book. This wasn’t the plan I had all mapped out in my head, complete with bullet points and check lists. This “other book” wasn’t what my dream was supposed to look like.

I had it all figured out, of course. I wrote the memoir to give other waffly Christians like me hope. I wrote my story as a testament to the fact that God transforms even the most stubborn, unbelieving people. That was the story I wanted published. That story was my dream. This other book was all wrong; it didn’t fit. It wasn’t part of The Plan.

I’d long forgotten, of course, that it wasn’t my plan to begin with.

Somewhere along the way I made God’s plan my plan. I took God’s dream for me and obsessed over it, managed it, shaped it, controlled it, molded it and defined it according to what I thought it should look like and how I wanted it to unfold.
In short, I transformed God’s dream for me into an idol.
When I first told the kids at dinner a few weeks ago that it was official – I was going to get a book published – they were astonished.

“Really??!! Your book??!! You’re finally going to get your book published?” Rowan screeched, his eyes wide and bright with excitement.
“Well, not my book exactly,” I said quietly. “I mean, it will be my book …but it’s not the one I’ve been talking about forever, the one I already wrote. This is a different book. A new book.”
The kids paused. I looked down at my plate.

“But you know what this means, right?” Noah said suddenly, sitting up straight in his chair. “This means you go from being a writer to being an author! A real author, with, like, a book in the bookstore and everything!”

I smiled at my boys sitting across from me at the table, my eyes tearing. “You know,” I said to Noah, “I hadn’t thought of it that way until right this minute.”

Up to that point I’d been less than excited about this book. In fact, when I told close friends and family members about it, a distinct note of apology tinged my voice. I felt disappointed and, while not like a total failure, at least like I’d missed the mark a bit.

It turns out, after all my reshaping and refining, I'd defined the dream too narrowly – so narrowly, in fact, that I didn’t recognize the dream when it began to unfold in a way I didn’t expect.

I was so caught up in the fact that this dream didn’t exactly resemble the one I had crafted for myself, I missed a very important detail, a detail that Noah’s exuberant dinner table declaration jarred back into place.

That night, sitting across the table from my beaming boys, I realized that the dream is still alive, unfurling right here, right now, right before my very eyes. It’s a God-inspired, God-planned and God-led dream, and just because it looks different than I imagined, doesn’t mean it’s not very, very good.

So tell me…has a dream of yours ever turned out differently than you’d imagined?
 
{And can I say thank you, too, to each and every one of you – for sticking with me and standing by me and cheering me on throughout the most arduous road-to-publishing journey in history? Truly. Thank you. I can’t wait to tell you more about this book in the coming weeks and months.}

One more thing...you've heard about Jumping Tandem: The Retreat, right? I'll be talking about this very topic there in April (because believe me, I have a lot more to say!), plus there's going to be a ton of other dream-related speakers. If you've got a dream (and I know you do), you don't want to miss this.  

 
Linking with Jennifer today...

And Emily at Imperfect Prose:


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Hear It on Sunday, Use It on Monday: For the Times You Think You are in Control

“Hey Brad, hand me a pencil please, will you?” I asked, interrupting the quiet. “I need to stab my eye out.”
 
I’d just read online that yet another fellow writer had landed a book deal – a two-book deal, no less, with a major, New York City-based publisher. And I’d had it. Frustrated and bitter with my lack of progress in the publishing field, I was ready to quit. Or at the very least stab my eye out with a sharp pencil.

Then, just two days later, my agent called with good news. She had a project for me – not the book deal I'd dreamed of, but a fabulous writing project nonetheless. I hung up the phone and twirled into the kitchen, but even before I could announce my big news, Brad said this: “The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away.”
I give the man credit – Brad didn’t dare quote this verse from Job when I was in the throes of the Lord taketh away. He only mentioned it at the announcement of good news, and not to throw a wet blanket on my party, but to remind me that God, and God alone, is in control.

I forget that sometimes. Or I try to forget it, at least. Frankly, I like to be in control. I like to think I’m managing this tenuous writing career; I like to pretend that I’m making this all happen on my own. I like to imagine that if I work hard enough and push long enough, I can make a book deal happen.

Deep down, though, I know that’s simply not true. Deep down I know that real faith requires obedience and surrender, that God is the master planner, not me.

And I think that’s exactly what Hannah realizes in the verses we read from 1 Samuel this week.

Her prayer begins as thanksgiving for the fact that God has accomplished the impossible in blessing her with a child after years of infertility.

But then Hannah’s prayer shifts into an entirely different tone, as she says this:

The Lord gives both death and life;
he brings some people down to the grave but
raises others up.
The Lord makes some poor and others rich;
he brings some down and lifts others up…
For all the earth is the Lord’s,
and he has set the world in order
( 1 Samuel 2:6-8, NLT)

For me, the last two lines are key: For all the earth is the Lord’s, and he has set the world in order.


Hannah bargained with God in order to be able to bear a child – she took the matter into her own hands, her own control, and made a deal with God. In the end, though, her prayer illustrates that she has come to a deeper understanding of her relationship with God. Hannah understands that Samuel was offered to her as an undeserved gift, rather than a reward for her tenacious prayers.

With this prayer, Hannah reminds me that the Earth, along with everything and everyone on it, was created by God. He rules over it…and us. And he (not I) sets the world in order.

What about you? Are you struggling to control something that should be left in God's hands?

: :

One quick little note here before we do the link-up. Have you heard about our new family project?! We are trying to raise $5,000 through Charity:Water, which would provide 250 people in Africa or Asia with clean, fresh water [800 million people around the world do not have access to clean water!]. We've dedicated our campaign to Brad's parents, Jon and Janice, and we would be incredibly grateful if you would consider making a donation. Click here for more information. Thank you!!


Welcome to the "Hear It on Sunday, Use It on Monday" community, a place where we share what we are hearing from God and his Word.

If you're here for the first time, click
here for more information. Please include the Hear It, Use It button (grab the code below) or a link in your post, so your readers know where to find the community if they want to join in -- thank you!

Please also try to visit and leave some friendly encouragement in the comment box of at least one other Hear It, Use It participant. And if you want to tweet about the community, please use the #HearItUseIt hashtag.



Thank you -- I am so grateful that you are here!





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With


A couple of years ago my husband, our boys and I took a canoe trip in the Boundary Waters, a remote wilderness in northern Minnesota. We glided across the glinting lake, our paddles dipping rhythmically, the kids dangling their fingers in the water as we wove around lily pads and over golden lake grass, undulating like ribbons beneath the surface.

After about two hours of peaceful paddling, we turned the canoe around and were shocked to find ourselves nearly knocked flat by a gale-force wind. It took about 30 seconds for me to realize that the return trip was not going to be nearly as relaxing. Though I was paddling as hard as I could, I noticed the shore wasn’t moving; we were literally paddling in place. As the lake frothed into whitecaps, water gushed over the bow, and the canoe threatened to turn broadside.

...I'm posting over at Kimberly Coyle's place today as part of her 31 Days of Encouragement for the Journey series. See you over there?

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We are Raising $5,000 for Water!

I don't usually post on Thursdays, but we are so excited to tell you about a new family project we’ve launched, in the hope that you might be interested in supporting it. We are aiming to raise $5,000 through an organization called Charity: Water, which drills wells and supplies water to thousands of people around the world who desperately need it.

More than 800 million people on this planet do not have access to clean water.

30,000 people die every week from preventable illnesses caused by unclean water – and 90% of these 30,000 deaths are children under age 5.

In Africa alone, people spend 40 billion hours every year just walking to and from the nearest water source…which is usually contaminated.

I could cite dozens more statistics, but I’m sure you get the point, which is that millions of people are dying around the world from a very preventable cause.

My in-laws, Jon and Janice Johnson, were among the most generous people I have ever known.
 

While they were living they financially supported a variety of non-profit humanitarian organizations, and they gave their time as well as their money. We have named this project The Jon and Janice Johnson Water Project in their memory, and it makes us so happy to know how pleased they would be with this initiative. Because of their generosity to us, we are able to launch this campaign in the hopes of offering water, and hope, to others far less fortunate than us.

We will accept any and all gifts with gratitude. Please visit our Project website to make an easy online donation: http://mycharitywater.org/johnsonwaterproject

You should know, too, that Charity: Water uses 100% of donations to fund its global water projects. You can read more about Charity: Water by clicking here if you are interested.

Thank you so much for your generosity and support. Please email me if you have any questions at all. [michellederusha1@gmail.com]

With love and gratitude,

Michelle, Brad, Noah & Rowan

“Charity begins today. Today someone is suffering…Our work is for today, yesterday has gone and tomorrow has not come.”
– Mother Teresa


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One Square Inch


 
I pick up the magazine from Karna’s table. “Shhhhhh…Everything you always wanted to know about peace and quiet: The Silence Issue,” the cover headline reads.
Well, yeah, sign me up for silence, thank you very much.
I read the whole issue of Ode magazine cover to cover before I realize it’s dated July/August 2008; but in the end, that doesn’t matter – the content is timeless.

Like the story about “acoustic ecologist” Gordon Hempton, an Emmy Award-winning documentary sound recordist who cares very deeply about quiet – so deeply, in fact, that he’s made protecting quiet his mission on Earth.

Hempton, who’s been called “America’s foremost guru of quiet” by USA Today, claims that there are less than 10 naturally quiet places left in the United States and zero in Europe. He’s identified the quietest place in America as a spot in Olympic National Park’s Hoh Rain Forest in Washington – a place he calls One Square Inch.  Hempton believes in soundscape management – that is, protecting our wild places from the intrusion of manmade noise.

When’s the last time you were surrounded by a silence uninterrupted by manmade noise?

When’s the last time you heard not Twitter chirps and cell phone beeps and garbage trucks, the swish of the dishwasher, rumble of the dryer, scream of the jet overhead…but the taptaptap of the downy woodpecker, the hush of wind in your ears, the gurgle of water over river rocks, the click of a beetle’s wings?

When's the last time you heard only that, nothing else?

Ordinarily I’d tell you I couldn’t remember the last time I experienced that kind of quiet. But two weeks ago I enjoyed exactly that – a rare moment of absolute, natural quiet, untainted by manmade sound.

Spotting the emerald green, I stepped off the dirt path, skirting around wizened trunks and spiny prickly pear cactus, and jogged down the matted grass toward the bank.



 
 

 


I heard it first – a splash, then a flurry of wings thrumming the still air. A second later I glimpsed the bird itself, magnificent and regal, rising above the malachite water – a Great Blue Heron, its wings dipped in steel, neck tucked tight.

He was quick, too quick for my camera, so I simply watched, one hand shielding my eyes from the glare, as he soared around the bend and out of sight, spindly legs held straight under his elegant wingspan.

I sat on pockmarked rock on the bank of the Frio River, my back to the skyscraping canyon wall. The sun warmed the top of my head, and the cool wind dried the sweat to salt on my skin. Chin on my knees, I stared at the water, at its emerald green, at the rock shelves suspended eerily like eons-old ghosts below the glittering surface.

I listened to the unfamiliar call of a bird, piercing and shrill, hidden in the scrub brush on the opposite bank. The water flowed silently, occasionally meeting the cave-like rock of the bank with a hollow gloink, like the sea beneath a wooden pier.

I waited, still, for the Great Blue Heron to return. But even when I knew he wouldn't reappear, I sat longer, listening to the Earth beat in perfect quiet.

When's the last time you experienced one square inch of silence? Will you share that moment with us in the comments here?

{And if you have time, do watch this. I love this guy's passion, and I truly believe his work is his ministry}:



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