Dearly Beloved, Grace and Peace to you. After the glut of sparkle and sentiment, all that heavy gold and glory, it's kind of a relief to return to an orderly house, a clean mantle, a blue and white shirt, the regular dishes.
The world is plain, snow is crusted, trees more bare than in November. The marsh like the underside of a carpet, the cattails bland and spent. The asphalt road has nothing to say, the gray sky shrugs and says, “Ditto.”
God stands there, hands in the pockets of a drab jacket, gazing at the brook's blank of ice, says, “Yeah, I like to hang out here. It's relaxing. Clears my head.”
I come home to a quiet house, refrigerator humming. This too is holy. I sit on the couch, gaze out at the yard. “Huh,” I say. “What do you know? Pockets.”
Deep Blessings, Pastor Steve
__________________ Steve Garnaas-Holmes Unfolding Light www.unfoldinglight.net
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