It is wild and spread out like fields of unexpected wildflowers rolling up hills and stretching out across meadows. Sharp bursts of lemon and violet polkadotting the lush greens of fields.
|Photo courtesy of Corrin.|
There is joy, and it cannot be stolen unless I first give it away.
I steal my own joy, rob myself barren of it when I worry-wander into tomorrow while I'm still living in today.
What sense does it make to live in tomorrow's fears?
Fears that might never and will probably never unfold into realities?
Something happened this weekend, after the suffocating what-if waves began lapping at my feet
and I toyed with wading far into the worry-waters.
When I turned turned my back on that sprawling sea of uncertainty,
fell to my knees
and opened my hands to the Giver of Good gifts,
I began to not just see the good gifts given, the many good gifts given, but I began to more intimately trust the Giver who keeps giving them.
I soaked up words from Ann Voskamp's book One Thousand Gifts, and I realized it was true, what she's written:
"The quiet song of gratitude, eucharisteo, lures humility out of the shadows because to receive a gift the knees must bend humble and hand must lie vulnerably open and the will must bow to accept whatever the Giver chooses to give.
Again, always, and always again: eucharisteo precedes the miracle."
The miracle, for me, is having eyes that can see joy spread out in the moment,
joy saturating the spanning seconds of today,
joy not stolen by the what ifs of tomorrow.
I've been so greedy.
I've been trying to unwrap gifts before they are given.
In my worry, I've been trying to see the potential dips and valleys that might be waiting in a new day with no more light than that of the moon; I've been trying to see the lay of the land ahead of me while its still, from my view, encompassed in shadows.
There is joy, radiant and saturating.
And it dawns when the sun rises to shed real light on the day unfolding at the foot of the horizon, when palms are turned up and opened ready to receive the gift as the light inches higher and higher, moment by moment.