Julie Lyles Carr: Sunday Selah

Sunday, January 4, 2009

Sunday Selah

The LORD said, "Go out and stand on the mountain in the presence of the LORD, for the LORD is about to pass by."
Then a great and powerful wind tore the mountains apart and shattered the rocks before the LORD, but the LORD was not in the wind. After the wind there was an earthquake, but the LORD was not in the earthquake.  After the earthquake came a fire, but the LORD was not in the fire. 
And after the fire came a gentle whisper.
1 Kings 19:11-12

It starts again tomorrow.
The Normal.

The schooling, the carpooling, the practices, the dance classes, the speech therapy, the schedule, the chores, the routines.

The Normal.

And while I've loved the holiday celebrations and travel and break from the everyday, it's this moment I'm finding profound.

The stillness, the quiet, the breath between the completion of the holiday season and the beginning of the new year's responsibilities. The pause held in the moment after the party and before the predictable.

And I suppose it's because it's in the stillness that I hear You best. I see You honored throughout Christmas and I seek Your strength throughout the rigors of my regular routines. But it's in these few hours, when the tree is down and the gifts are put away, when the schooling has not yet started and the dance classes have yet to begin, that I can slow down a moment and hear the faint whisper of Your voice.

It is a blessed breathing space.

Quietness. Stillness.


Why do I have such trouble sitting still, squirming in the pew of life, hearing the words but all the while thinking of the next project, the next assignment, the next appointment? And yet, when I settle myself, when I focus in and slow down, how sweet is Your voice.

And for now, it's not even necessarily what I hear as much as it is just sensing You there. I believe You are all around, I know You count the hairs of my head. But it is when I get still that I can breathe that knowledge in.

A prayerful pause. A contemplative comma.

A saturated stillness.

The very fullness of You.


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