Dearly Beloved, Grace and Peace to you.
Earth is playing with us. City quieted by heaps of silence, no one out but plows moaning up and down the roads, pickups lurching in and out of driveways, back and forth like peasant women grinding meal, like the rabbi at prayer, and shovelers lost in little blizzards of their own making.
Snow up over your knees is dang hard to walk in. Half a day shot shoveling, raking the roof, digging out the mailbox. Fingers numb. Sore back. Snow down my neck. Nose feels brittle. Why do I love this so?
Perhaps that I am flesh, weak, warm-blooded and in need of a way being made, a little white canyon through this heaven, that I'm an earthling and not the other way around, that maybe paradise itself is not without struggle, that I wouldn't be happy without Another's hand so, deft, upon me, without being once in a while hemmed in, defeated, even hurt a little by this much beauty, this much presence, this much swirling, heaping, drifting mystery.
Up the street, two little kids slide on their backs down the pyramid at the end of their driveway.
Deep Blessings, Pastor Steve
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