Forgive the writerly language. It’s just such an exquisite day, I couldn’t resist . . .
Today is the kind of day I just want to praise You, God. It’s such a beautiful day. It’s the kind of day about which bestselling authors write bestselling descriptions, and transport readers to a place of hope, a place we often think exists only in our imaginations.
It’s about 70 degrees, and a breeze is blowing. The whispering wind lulls a soothing tune through the branches of a lush, green pine, and the pine dances in response, swaying and bowing in graceful motion. Just beyond the tree, a glassy-topped pond ripples its waves, as if it wants to join the dance, but waits politely to be asked.
Across the pond, a tall windmill stands guard, ever the benevolent host, working behind the scenes to make sure the refreshment doesn’t run short. Cattails and the remnants of out-of-season wildflowers line the periphery, leaning and gossiping behind sheltering fingers, chattering and nattering about who will wear what colors come spring.
Behind me, redbirds and bluebirds call out, darting here and there to show off their blazing feathers, as if to taunt the poor wildflowers who must wait their turns.
Today is the kind of day I like to call a Mary day. Mary, as opposed to Martha. Today is the kind of day my inner Martha wants to scold and guilt me into leaving this sanctuary, for there’s too much to do, to be sitting here wasting away the hours.
And the Mary in me almost listens, almost gets up and returns to the laundry, the dusting, the chores . . . but that’s when I hear another voice, telling me not to listen to her. Telling me this is best. Telling me that this place, this moment is to be savored and cherished, for the chores will always be there . . . but this day will soon be gone.
Thank you, God, for this day, and for the reminder that life is made up of beautiful moments . . . moments I’ll miss if I’m too busy to notice.