Another morning and I wake with thirst for the goodness I do not have.
This first line of Mary Oliver’s poem “Thirst” was unfamiliar to me. As I read it for the first time, I noticed a visceral, physical reaction well up in my body. Powerful, consuming, even painful. Tears welled up. I kept reading.
I walk out to the pond and all the way God has given us such beautiful lessons.
A complete 180-degree turn. I glance out my office window and notice the trees, the leaves scattered about the playground, a few colorful ones still affixed to branches in the distance. In my window, artwork encourages me to “Breathe in. Breathe out.”
Oh Lord, I was never a quick scholar but sulked and hunched over my books past the hour and the bell; grant me, in your mercy, a little more time.
The clock in my windowsill, refusing to keep good track of time, clicks ominously. The submission deadline for this devotion has come and gone, as I have waited for inspiration. What word about joy can I share in these days that feel disorienting and uncertain at best?
Love for the earth and love for you are having such a long conversation in my heart.
Why yes, yes, they are. Every day. Every moment. In the emergency room as my spouse receives thoughtful, thorough care. In the giggling of our daughter and her friend at the movie theater. In the creativity of coloring icing for a birthday cake, discovering a more beautiful creation than imagined. In the click of heels on the hardwood floor, as our child dances around the living room with abandon while music wafts through the cell phone speaker. The conversation is long because the incongruence between the thirst for goodness in my spirit and the actual goodness before my eyes seems too much to bear.
Who knows what will finally happen or where I will be sent, yet already I have given a great many things away, expecting to be told to pack nothing,
Ever the reminder that making space and time, along with the ability to practice being, is key to noticing the presence of everyday joys.
. . . except the prayers which, with this thirst, I am slowly learning.
Slowly, deep breath by deep breath, I am learning how to move back and forth along the continuum—for everyday joy and everyday longing always reside together on the very same bench. Somehow, only in the movement between them is true Joy born and known.
Prayer: Holy One, give us wisdom in this Advent season to move along the continuum of joy and longing with care and compassion for ourselves and others. When our throats are parched with thirst and our spirits dehydrated, may seeing everyday joys through your eyes carry and renew us. Through Christ we pray, Amen.
Renee’s everyday joys center around her husband, Tyler, 9-year-old daughter, Eliza, and their beagle, Mazie. The practice of wondering centers her, although life’s unpredictability often threatens to displace that practice. This Advent, she’s hoping to explore some new cookie recipes to share with friends and neighbors and revel in some quiet evening moments to reflect by the light of the Christmas tree.