And for us, supper follows sweat. We were born to run through life and hit the finish, and every day is a little like that; a little like practice; one step closer to the prize.
We're light-shedders and care-takers; we blaze trails just by running our helter-skelter path. And laughing. Our laughter burns like muscles pushing up off the ground and running on. We will see good, and we will not be defeated: the glories of this spinning world are a chant to keep us on our feet. Our King is to be trusted, our Savior a prize worth any cost. And what cost to Him? He says, Look to Me and Run. And so our noses point down a shadowed, burning, and light-studded path to the One worth the race.
And if you can't see where we're pointing, then look at the bee. And the rock, and the flower. Feel the sun, and the pull of the tide, watch the meteor shower. Taste raspberries and cantaloupe, and fresh bread with butter. Smell coffee and mown grass, and lilacs in May, and the ocean, and bacon, and rain. Have you seen red-winged-blackbirds over a swamp? or a dog smile, or a turtle crawl, or a toddler grin, or a groom watching his bride?
Made you look.
That's the song of his people. He's the Giver. Every cricket, every deep-lung breath, basket of laundry, ruminating cow, tree pouf-ing with green in the spring: is water to be poured down our throats, gravel to be crunched underfoot, a fence to be hurdled. That burrito is fuel for every taste-bud and enjoyment-sensor you have: to hearten your soul for the days ahead, as well as strengthening your body and bone. Soak in that sun, and rest your feet and your hands and your mind. You need it, to run the true course. We don't give up that one, but sometimes our best running is done when we hand our weary heart to our Brother and flop down in the grass. When we're believing His Finished, we run strongly, no matter what our feet and hands find to do.
Feast with your people. He loves feasting. Remember why we feast (victory). Remember when we'll feast (marriage supper of the Lamb). Remember who's the bread (Jesus).
Of course some days we groan when the alarm goes off; say 'I can't, I can't,' when difficulties come our way; bite dust when we step out the front door (figuratively speaking; usually). And that's why we remind each other to grin back at piles of dishes, to follow the flight of a bird with our eyes, to hug a child, and end an argument, and pick up the slack. To drink water and keep running. That's why I believe in waffles, and books, and team-work, and grit, and doing the hard thing, and finding love. We have victory running through our veins, the Victor's blood pumping in us. We were born for this, to be spent for the sake of Another. To be poured out, and picked up; to believe and be made new. To laugh in the face of danger, because we will never recant, not even by despairing. Born to talk back to fear, and listen as the heavens proclaim, and cry when tragedy laps at our feet, and to cry again when our hearts are so overwhelmed with joy and longing and beauty that we cannot contain it.
This is our calling.
We are dandelions and we cry out from the rocks.
Dedicated to my hard-running Sis. Happy Birthday, Lovely!
Also, shoutout to N.D. Wilson, whose books help fuel my days, whose dandelions captured my imagination years ago, and whose writing inspires mine.
