Muted sunlight filtered through rain-filled clouds drifting in. Absorbing the palette of muted grays; I am smitten and subdued. Windows half open, a downpour threatening not yet arrived. The sounds of chores in progress in the background; machines gurgling water, tossing clothes. White countertops, wiped clean. The faint smell of last night’s dinner, the shine of stainless steel.
Coffee in hand, fingers typing. Fingers telling the story dictated by the heart, by sensing. I do not know where we will end up, I do not know what matters most or what you might need to hear. What I know is I am not alone. What I know is the holy reverence of significance: of seeing, feeling, remembering, and noticing as it happens. What I know is holiness is here, now — not a place I will reach but a thing that I am, that flows from me, that spills onto keyboards and dancing fingertips struggling to tell the story of why it matters, why I am here.
I wait to draw out from him the reason for everything. I wait to draw out and to hear; I cannot live without it. I wait, because action without listening is wasted, because I know he is faithful to speak, to come and to bring peace. Alone, I am not — but some days, barely breathing. I wait to draw out from him breath — I wait, to draw from him meaning. I wait, still and expectant of a downpour forthcoming; the work together we will make.