"[W]hatever is lovely. . . think about such things" (Phil. 4:8)
When I slow down, I begin to notice the nooks and crannies
of the world, to be thankful, to fall in love again. Seeing
the crack in the sidewalk, grass asserting itself, I
am reminded of the impermanence of civilizations, or
the unremitting sovereignty of God, or both. I consider the
streets, curb, gutters, water and sewer and electricity
coursing underfoot, and I am thankful for the beauty of
order, that things work. And yet the loveliest things were here long
before --- the red headed woodpecker on the feeder, the
repertoire of the mockingbird, the scurrying about of the
chipmunk (tolerable because he is cute), the breeze on my
face, the gurgling creek water, the smell of honeysuckle.
If I am His likeness, then what can I do but love the world?
And yet sometimes I am unfaithful. I neglect the loving.
Tonight, under Orion's gaze, I listen to cicadas sing. . . . Do
you remember that song "Sing Me Home Again?"
I think that's what they're singing, a song winging upward, a
beautiful longing, Creation longing to be set free, to be all lovely, again.