In the Moment

We’re down in Portland for the weekend, a little getaway to celebrate our anniversary.  Happy 21st to us!

Keeping my running streak alive, I dressed down and laced up for a run.

I put my headphones on and turned on my mp3 player.  Nothing.  I could hear that power was getting to it, but no sound emitted from the plastic attachment.  Strange.  I fiddled with it, unplugging the headphones from the player and reinserting them.  That was the extent of my mechanical knowledge. Nope.  They bit the dust.  I sighed.  I don’t like running without music.  I have done it, and will do it again, but it’s more enjoyable with my tunes playing.

I left it behind and headed out.  It’s summer here!  This is where it’s been hiding.  It’s not summer – yet – in Shelton.  Here, it’s warm.  It’s going to get close to 90 today.  I wanted to get the run knocked out early, before the sun could blaze down.

I turned down a side street.  The sun was just coming up over the hills.  The roadsides bloomed with wildflowers – something periwinkle, neon-yellow blossoms of something else, and my favorite, sweet pea.  My dad calls me Sweet Pea, not to be confused with this Sweet Pea.

Can you see the resemblance?

Can you see the resemblance?

And that started me thinking about our Heavenly Father.  Due to circumstances in my childhood, I’ve had trust issues.  I haven’t always felt like God had the best in mind for me.  But as the breeze blew a breath of cool, fresh, flower-scented air over me, I realized anew my faulty thinking.  It’s just that sometimes God is quiet.  We look for answers and seek His face but He doesn’t respond.  Sometimes we’ve veered from the path we should be on, and we need to realize it.  Other times, it’s simply a season of waiting.  We move forward with what we *do* know and listen for further instructions.

I chugged along in relative quiet.  In this location, it’s never totally quiet. Planes soar overhead.  Cars lurch.  Trains toot.  But my head calmed down as I put one foot in front of the other, sun warming my back.  I went up hills and down hills.  I ran on asphalt and grass and gravel.  Birds chirruped to each other in the trees.  My spirit expanded.

Earlier this week, Ruby and I attended a kids’ summer concert at our local library.  We listened to a group called Harmonica Pocket.  They sang original songs about trees and growing things and mud puddles.  Comprised of a guy and a girl, they played guitar and harmonica – and “hoolihooped”.  They were joyous and fun.  I sat on the wooden floor with Ruby, who didn’t want to sit alone.  I held her as we listened and sometimes sang along.  I watched her face and the other children’s faces light up as the puppets emerged from their suitcase and the performers introduced “Diaperman”.  General raucous chortling ensued.  Ruby leaned on my knees and swayed, lost in the music.  A feeling of contentment swept over me as I surrendered to the moment.  A sweet breath of rest rolled over me.  Ruby has no trouble with trust.  And in that moment, as in the one this morning, neither did I.