It’s a misty, moisty morning here in our wee cove.
The kind of morning that begs you to just sit and listen—
A gentle rain peppers our tin roof…
A wren trills for her mate…
In the distance there’s a low rumble of thunder…the remnant of an early storm.
It’s the kind of stillness one wishes they could bottle
Like a fine perfume.
And bring out later, to dab behind the ears—when one hears grumbling
Or on one’s wrist—when busyness threatens to steal the day.
Even to spray in the air—to sweeten the odor of conflict and discord.
As I write this, a cardinal is calling in the timber.
Cardinals have long been my God Speak
So I will listen
Listen , this time, to what He wants to say to me.
Teach me, Lord, to Be Still
So even when the storms rage
I will hear the sweetness of Your voice
And know that You are God!