I find certain words tiresome, confining, and suffocating:
routine,
schedule,
predictable.
They give me claustrophobia.
Isn't this gift of life to be more poetic than that? Could the God who paints anew a sunrise in prelude and a sunset as finale to each day have destined the crown of His creation to routine, schedule, and predictable?
I prefer to think not.
He is an artist. At once a poet, a musician, a painter, and a sculptor.
So I search for the rhythm of my life. The melody of my days. The poetry in to-do lists. The richest color in the mundane. The heart of a woman in the stony-ness of my flesh. I seek the artist's delight, His glory and His smile in the everyday.
They give me claustrophobia.
Isn't this gift of life to be more poetic than that? Could the God who paints anew a sunrise in prelude and a sunset as finale to each day have destined the crown of His creation to routine, schedule, and predictable?
I prefer to think not.
He is an artist. At once a poet, a musician, a painter, and a sculptor.
So I search for the rhythm of my life. The melody of my days. The poetry in to-do lists. The richest color in the mundane. The heart of a woman in the stony-ness of my flesh. I seek the artist's delight, His glory and His smile in the everyday.
It sound as if you have a rhythm of words. Life is not a pattern. But your words can be the Rhythm you are looking for. Keep writing and do not loss heart in the stuff of life. Galen and I are praying for your family.
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