Last night at coffee, Paul Dewayne said it was the ritual he was addicted to not the activity of puffing smoke. Jack walked by and we visited a moment. I remembered how we are not alone. I remembered the Fall and my deciduous choices.
When you speak out loud you offer the opportunity for correction and reproving, refining and redefining. The world does not conform itself to the flats of solitude. It pours itself thru that glass very darkly and only in the globe of warmth and rebuke can that mirrored reflection finally stand beside you and hold light.
I walked to my car and thought about design and what holds true about God's reasons to daily rescue me. Still why would he? And how? I drove home. And then, I looked on the sofa table and heard the sound of my own voice. A ritual. He can use a ritual.
Before bed, buddy and I walk out the front door most evenings and do a quick business in the yard. The rain and sleet were especially cold two nights ago while Nashville continued to make up its weather never-you-mind. I noticed the flowers blooming in the yard. They were goners. My heart loved them went out to them and i wanted them with me in the spring of my own house. There was no time to put on my coat. And now, they will live a week in this window, God's very heart for me is realized and revered in my own compassion for the mere, and today we are blooming, rescued and alive.
jP 14.28.o13
