There are those days when the weight of the world presses in. Fires are burning and viruses are spreading and the whole world seems lit up with orange caution signs.
Your family doctor up and leaves without anyone to replace her and you wonder who will write your prescriptions and complete your disability forms.
Someone you love loses a baby.
You walk home from church because the bus is taking too long to come and, besides, the sun is finally shining and you want to feel it on your face.
You linger and look, pausing to pay attention to the sun and the clouds and the frothy wake leaving streamers behind the boats. You take time to notice, to let the light into your soul and the beauty into your heart. To remember that God is good.
You see the mountains peeking out beneath the clouds—still there, still strong and beautiful in their majesty—and you remember that even if the mountains quake and fall into the sea, God will remain (Ps 46). That He is where our help comes from (Ps. 121).
All around are reminders that even our most expensive possessions, our most clung to earthly securities, are as frail and vulnerable as dollar store toys.
And it’s okay. Nothing and no one on this earth was ever meant to provide the security we crave.
The light’s red, but the birds don’t seem to notice. For them, flying above it, red or green is all the same, a kindly arm stretched out, a place to rest and watch and then, when they’re ready, to launch again.
And slowly you realize that “yield” now feels like an invitation to rest, to let greater shoulders carry the world.