Summer died early this year, and in this dry season that saddened the voice of the local weather man, it is an elusive rain that awakens me this morning. Where have you been? The brown eyed susans wilted too soon without you, and the hardy mums didn't seem strong at all.
I think of poetry and Edna St. Vincent Millay this morning. Yes, rain does have a friendly sound to one who is six feet underground, and it mattters little that your death has everything to do with being seed, fallen to the ground, split open, and forced into a growth that feels impossible most days. So, I lie in bed listening the waters skittering on the roof, and it makes me think of Promises .
God, you look different in the morning, when I am closer to sunrise than to the endless black of midnight. You are like the call of a beloved friend I haven't spoken to in a long time. I've missed You so much more than I realized I did, before I heard the gentle timbre of Your voice again, and felt Your warm fingers tumbling through the treetops, illuminating multicolored leaves with divine, perfect light.
You look different in morning.
I can see You again.
Though I know You stayed with me in the night--the solid, reliable God of Calvin, Unchanging, and choosing me, I am thankful in my Charismatic soul for you in this morning, so bright, even before the sun gets up, stretches, and begans her day. This morning You are MY God. The one who hugs his baby. The God I can feel.
I am grateful.
Good morning, Lord.