Thinking Things

       There are plenty of things to think about. The image of sitting, thinking slowly, more noticing things, the sound of the wind, the quiet of the sky, the different in shade between the navy blue-black and the dark gray of a cloud, and then the car going by. It was white. It was to my right, in front of my, to my left, there and than not in an instant, and somewhere in my mind the slow thought compared the speed, the rushing, the instantaneous travel and movement of the car to American life and wondered what my slow stillness was. It was probably left over from the grocery story I'd written (and posted earlier) in this blog.
     I could think about God's character, trying to divine how to focus on it, to bring my mind to feel the wonder and awe that true thought and sight of Him must bring. He is the God of all the universe and Lord of all I am, broader, deeper, higher, more far-reaching than I can comprehend--and yet I have such trouble focusing on Him. I could think about how to learn that discipline (I know that music is a great help, when--and only when--the songs are chosen carefully, both true and excellent in melody and lyrics; His word, too--such a marvel, a puzzle, the layers and yet the simple truth of it! It told more of His character than I have discovered).
     I could think about my desire to ponder profound things, my wish to retain the excellence of mind I tried to practice once, turning over the irony of wishing for something so deep while thinking something so mind-numbing. Blah.
      But all of these come up empty; all of these give nothing but a moment' distraction from the quite, the unease of the silence that reveals to oneself who one is, what one is thinking, if one is self-introspective and aware; if one tends to critique one's own thoughts and emotions as a distant and yet biased judge. It is the quiet that allows no escape from the thoughts and emotions of the self. It is the lack of distraction that is so seldom available in an American culture where distraction till can equate with irritation, and yet to be without it would be novel and perhaps uncomfortable.
     It is only when I peel back the layers to what I am feeling and thinking, what I am and why I am, and how I can surrender all of that to God, that the silence becomes rest. In his hands, there is no unease, for I know He will make me all I should be. Only my own impatience for this certain work to be done mars that rest. God, give me the strength to surrender, and the faith to wait. In the name of Christ, amen.