The day is delightfully dreary at our little home upon the hill.  Don’t mistake me, the blue-hued days of spring, I greatly adore.  But a spasmodic day, drab and dreary, delves beneath the surface of me in a unique way.

This morn came with rainy waves, gentle and generous, rich with the reminder of the offering of blooms.

The percussion and persistence of this present precipitation tickles my heart to a verse long favorited: But the land came to her rescue - it opened its mouth and swallowed up the river which the dragon had spewed out of its mouth. Revelation 12:16 Not a flowery phrase to be sure, but one that flourishes with truths I have firsthand seen and and frequently behold.  For the land has come to my rescue, over and again, openhanded, granting in ways lavish and lasting. In this season of tamed tempo, I’ve discovered that relentless motion does not make miles matter more than moments.  My tutors have been bud and bloom, as Beauty’s breath has bathed branches.  Ageless trees and sprouting seeds have hurried me to hush and hallelujah. Peeking through panes still raindrop clung, I catch petals kissing air while grafted to stems malleable enough to move, yet rooted, stayed by soil.  And I dig into desperation to grow where I dwell.  To be lengthened and deepened in ...
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Cessor Journals | May 15, 2020