Still Waters
Life has moved at an incredibly frantic pace the past few weeks between work, summer activities, travel, etc. This is not how I normally "do life," so I've muddled along carving out time for whatever I could fit into 24 hours and trying to ignore the long list of things that have gone undone. I am an introvert to the core, so the frantic people-filled pace has left me depleted. This week I sat with my Bible open and read:
"He makes me lie down in green pastures,
he leads me beside quiet waters,
he restores my soul." (Psalm 23)
I practically breathed the words in, clinging to them, pleading for green pastures and quiet waters--just a little moment of peace to calm the hectic pace. I had hoped to take some time off of work to go for one last hike as a family before school started. The time in nature would be good for my soul, and I wanted one last summer adventure with the kids. The plans never materialized and as the days, instead, became fuller and fuller, I clung to the words I had read.
Today I raced from the hospital to a meeting that had started fifteen minutes earlier. I would be going straight from that meeting to two more, and then back to work to a long list of tasks. I turned off the main road and onto a side road. It was being repaired, and half the road was stripped down to a rough surface. My car hummed loudly as I drove along. It was almost deafening.
And then I heard it. My quiet waters. The steady roar like rushing water, humming through my car. It sounded like the noise machine that had masked day-time sounds and allowed me to sleep when I worked night shift. It sounded like the dull rumble of waves in the distance. It was the closest thing I had to quiet waters, and I let it seep into my very soul.
I used to have those moments when the kids were little. They never lasted long--sometimes only a few seconds. But suddenly I would realize that no one was talking, no one was crying, no one needed me. There was nothing but the sound of silence. I learned to wear the silence like a warm robe--wrap it around myself, settle deeply into it, and breathe. It didn't matter how long it lasted; when the moment had passed and the noise had resumed, I emerged a different person. I was centered. I was calmed. I was restored.
There are seasons that don't allow for green pastures and quiet waters. There are days that make a true escape impossible. But there are still moments of reprieve. Unconventional, maybe, but they get us through. There are havens--unexpected oases--that restore our souls. My side road was one of them, and I emerged--just like I had from my silent seconds--a new person. I emerged restored.
"He makes me lie down in green pastures,
he leads me beside quiet waters,
he restores my soul." (Psalm 23)
I practically breathed the words in, clinging to them, pleading for green pastures and quiet waters--just a little moment of peace to calm the hectic pace. I had hoped to take some time off of work to go for one last hike as a family before school started. The time in nature would be good for my soul, and I wanted one last summer adventure with the kids. The plans never materialized and as the days, instead, became fuller and fuller, I clung to the words I had read.
Today I raced from the hospital to a meeting that had started fifteen minutes earlier. I would be going straight from that meeting to two more, and then back to work to a long list of tasks. I turned off the main road and onto a side road. It was being repaired, and half the road was stripped down to a rough surface. My car hummed loudly as I drove along. It was almost deafening.
And then I heard it. My quiet waters. The steady roar like rushing water, humming through my car. It sounded like the noise machine that had masked day-time sounds and allowed me to sleep when I worked night shift. It sounded like the dull rumble of waves in the distance. It was the closest thing I had to quiet waters, and I let it seep into my very soul.
I used to have those moments when the kids were little. They never lasted long--sometimes only a few seconds. But suddenly I would realize that no one was talking, no one was crying, no one needed me. There was nothing but the sound of silence. I learned to wear the silence like a warm robe--wrap it around myself, settle deeply into it, and breathe. It didn't matter how long it lasted; when the moment had passed and the noise had resumed, I emerged a different person. I was centered. I was calmed. I was restored.
There are seasons that don't allow for green pastures and quiet waters. There are days that make a true escape impossible. But there are still moments of reprieve. Unconventional, maybe, but they get us through. There are havens--unexpected oases--that restore our souls. My side road was one of them, and I emerged--just like I had from my silent seconds--a new person. I emerged restored.
