The Canopy

      

      I’ve found myself a bench underneath a canopy. Vibrant yellow, red, and orange leaves sway carelessly, illuminating the blue sky. Water drips delicately off each leaf glimmering like a crystal. The fall air is crisp and earthy. The ground is quite after the rain. Everything seems to be inhaling as the storm slips away and the sun chases after it’s shadow. Here I sit. Amidst it all. The give and take of the earth and sky. Observing the inevitable changes that cannot be denied their right.

To sit with an open wound is harshly against human nature, yet, nature itself rests quietly while its flesh is incessantly torn open. Storms rage through its delicacies and frost strangles the color away from its face. There it goes. Letting it all happen. Quietly.

To sit with an open wound is uncomfortable. Thinking about allowing the air to swirl freely inside it, where ever it may please, is discomforting and painful to think about. Letting go of control so desperately sought. The pain lacks consistency and the ache stretches across every crevice. Vulnerability is not something coveted by the strong, yet allowing oneself to be exposed to the elements brings about incredible changes and awe-inspiring beauty. Scars in the land become lush valleys. What is lost, prepares for what is to come. Brokenness is never wasted in nature. Ever. It allows itself to embrace the intricate facets of vulnerability on every level. If only humanity would allow itself to experience this wonder.

So here I sit, on a damp bench underneath a canopy, pressing my palms into the soft aged wood and desperately trying to allow the vulnerability in my chest to breathe in the crisp, earthy air. I'm resisting the urge to throw my arms around myself and cover the brokenness left by the storm. Protect it. I’ll attempt to follow after the trees and make myself available to the great Creator who acknowledges and orchestrates every seed let go from a tree. I’ll allow myself the honor of exposing my vulnerability to the elements and here I’ll sit, anxiously awaiting the changes.

Whisper

Who am I to plan for tomorrow when I cannot safely say what will happen in the next five minutes? We must write in our spiritual calendars with pencil because pen is too painful to erase. You, Oh Lord, often share your most intimate messages through a whisper. A shout overcomes the ears but a whisper penetrates the heart. “Draw near to me and I will draw near to you.” [James 4:8] 

All of our most impactful relations as humans are shared intimately, near and close to each other. To draw near to the Creator of the Universe-so close that the breath of his nostrils is felt against your skin and His whisper can be heard-my soul trembles at the thought. How incredibly unworthy are we. How magnificent Yahweh’s love that He would rather draw us in close with His whisper, near enough to hear His heartbeat, than shout to us from a distance.