On these regular normal, ordinary days, I can forget not one of them is ordinary. All night I rested, slept long and hard and awoke. To this day. To this moment.
I awake too many days taking for granted the moment of right now. We have so many descriptions of time. We talk about how it marches or it flies. We describe how it drags or runs away.
We want to seize time. We want to rustle it; be the boss of it. We watch it. We regret it. We chase it. We rebel against it.
I want to mark time as holy, as sacred. I want to worry less about what I do with my time and enjoy more the moments, one by one, I get to live with God.
Holy Spirit, come. Show me how you are in this moment. Right now. With me.
It can take stopping, pausing, recognizing our breathing, even–in, out–to see a hint of the miracle.
It can take looking–determined faith that if we search hard enough for God we will see Him; we will hear Him; we will know more of what it means to have Him.
For if we want Him; we have Him.
And in this moment, as I type these words. My eyes are not on the keyboard, but looking out, past plates of glass to see tiny sparkles flit about near the stone bench in our yard, little bugs dancing above water droplets on green grass.
And I see, but I stop looking out, and I look in, my heart hungry to be filled.
Pull me in, Father. Pull us in, deeper still.