Piles of Leaves

 

The kids wake up.  I get them breakfast.  I let them watch a show (don’t judge).  I set out on a morning walk.  This isn’t a strolling walk- or I would make the kids come with me.  This is a brisk, huffing and puffing walk.  I listen to a podcast- something for me.  I breathe the brisk, morning air.  As my body stretches and aches with each uphill step, my brain awakens.  My eyes are drawn to changes in nature.  I hear God’s still, small voice.   Every day, God meets me on these walks.  I’ve grown to cherish these moments in the morning. 

This morning was dreary.  Cloudy.  Foggy.  There was a stickiness in the air as humidity has set in.   As I set out, I noticed the leaves that had fallen with our rain storm last night.  I observed that instead of leaves being all over the ground as one would have expected from a heavy rain, they were clumped in piles along the road.   It looked like someone had taken the time to rake hundreds of little piles only big enough for a tiny elf to play in.  I pondered over these little piles as I walked.

I thought about my life.  I looked back at the chaos of 2020.  I chuckled at how my life tends to be “all or nothing”, “feast or famine”.  Either I have nothing to do with free time or I have so much to do that I don’t know where to start.  True to form, that has been 2020- not in a good way.  I almost feel silly even saying this because this is everyone’s story these days.  Everywhere I look there is tragedy and pain and all marked with #2020.  Job losses, illnesses, house problems, car problems, painful separation from loved ones, digital learning/homeschool/in person school with crazy restrictions…. ALL THE THINGS.  Kind of feels like those piles of leaves- not spread out evenly but gathered and piled up all in one place.  Heavy.

In these times--- or rather, in this YEAR--- of ALL THE THINGS--- the big leaf piles--- it makes perfect sense to yell out “WHERE ARE YOU, GOD?!”  I found myself letting out that desperate cry just this week.  What. Is. Happening.  Where. Are. You. 

While I walked this morning, I noted every little pile of leaves on the road.  Dreary.  Wet.  Shades of brown and deep red.  I looked up.  In front of me was a brilliant yellow tree.  Its branches hung over the street.  On the ground were yellow leaves--- all spread out like a golden blanket.  As I walked under the branches, I felt a refreshing breeze.  I saw the yellow leaves slowly fluttering to the golden floor.  I couldn’t help but close my eyes and whisper my response “yes, Lord”. 

That response was completely involuntary.  It was as if my soul was crying out, detached from my mind.  My mind feels the heaviness of those piled up leaves.  My mind is constantly keeping a log of ALL THE THINGS.  All the questions that are unanswered.  All the events from this year that are unsettled.  But my soul.  My soul disregards my circumstances and cries out to my Creator.  My soul senses the Lord’s presence and responds before my mind can say “wait!  But what about…”.  My soul just is and reaches out to the God that just is. 

“Just is” is a connection that cannot be explained.  “Just is” brings with it a peace that passes understanding.  You know where that phrase comes from?  Phillipians 4:5-9.  “…The Lord is near.  Be anxious for nothing, but in everything by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, let your requests be known to God; and the peace of God, which surpasses all understanding, will guard your hearts and minds through Christ Jesus.” 

Walking under that golden tree, I felt the Lord was near.  I felt peace wash over me.  My “Just is” soul connected to my “Just is” God in that moment, breathing peace into my restless soul.  That is why my soul cried out “yes Lord”.  The leaves were still falling.  I saw them.  I felt them land on my head.  Even in those circumstances, we can still respond “Yes, Lord”.  Is there relief from the circumstances that bring us pain?  Not necessarily.  Will our circumstances and stresses change?  Not necessarily.  But God is still present, walking with us.  Every step.  As we walk through each pile of soggy heavy leaves, He is present.  He just is.   

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