There are some days heaven seems to come to earth more easily. Today, with lightness in an early morning summer rain and sacredness in bird play and glory in the slivers the sky shows as it parts, it seems closer.
Augusts aren't always so green.
The smell of sizzling bacon and freshly ground espresso invigorates and my heart dances along with the worship music that sings from a speaker on my kitchen counter.
My kitchen is clean, I should add.
The house is too, and that's everything for perspective.
Today is August 1 and it's the first morning I've had free in, well, months. I only finished cleaning the house last night, so I'm breathing it in right now. Gloating a little even.
My daughter Emily, who no longer lives at home, stopped by early this morning with a group of girls on the way to a wedding in Houston. I plied them zealously with food and beverage, recognizing all the while that I've become that mom, the one overjoyed to excess in insisting upon provision, as if I live alone and need something to do. As if everyone needs to eat all of the time.
Summer days Emily's sisters and I are usually at the pool by 6:30, and this is great because I walk the nearby track, neighborhood, or around a community lake with good friends while our swim team kids practice. It's good to get up early and get going.
But sometimes, it's just so good to stay at home and drink coffee.
And home when you need it is as close as heaven gets.
Because sometimes it's as far away as it can be. Especially when there is so much work to be done and, on a farm, so much suffering that can happen and I really do hate to dwell but that is just the way things are. Reality is unexpected calamity, the daily fight for life. Even when you are able to get away and walk every morning. When you have to.
And when you find it, the good part of being home, when inside it's clean and when outside it's calm, when the rain falls softly and the thunder turns over gently and the veil thins to provide a glimpse of things to come, when praise feels as easy as your own skin and past suffering sweetens the moment with gratitude and hope, and you can feed strangers, heaven seems so very close.
I cradle my hot cup and take a moment to stand on my porch, inhaling it in. All of it, deeply, gratefully, and expectantly. Gathering as much of it as I can until the next time I can take a moment, stay at home, and drink coffee.
With all the good.
It's always there waiting. And it's part of our Dynamic Purpose to pull down a piece of it each day, to see it and take a moment for it, cup in hand.
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