He rests in the hammock while I grill a flank steak.
“What did you write about today?” he asks. His eyes are closed, his arms, resting under his head.
The neighborhood kids are in the front yard and both gates swing open in tandem and I shew the kids back to the front yard. The kittens fall off the deck into the flower boxes.
“I didn’t write today. I’m still thinking on something. Maybe tomorrow?” I say. He nods. I think he’s dozing.
I sit on a bench, swatting flies, waiting to turn the steak. “Tell me what you’re thinking,” he says, his eyes still closed. I like the way he’s here, but not really here.
“I keep thinking about how God chose to bless you the other night. He picked someone you work with, someone who sees you working in your weaknesses, not your strengths, and God chose him to honor you with his words,” I say. “I guess I’ve been looking for the blessing to come from the church.”
I stand and walk to the grill to flip the steak and I sneak a glance his way. He’s just laying there, so I keep talking.
“I guess I’m just working through this idea that God chose to bless you because, well, you’re you. Not for how well you do what you do. Or that you do anything at all. It’s like God has given you an invitation to just live,” I say, more to myself that to him.
“Yeah, I know,” he answers. I look over and his eyes are open. “That man thanked me for doing nothing. Maybe God’s invitation is an invitation to make much of Jesus through my living and not so much in what I’m doing.”
I watch him rub his head as he thinks his own quiet thoughts and I call the kids for dinner.
I stare out the window this morning, the yard a mess from last night’s storm, my pots of daisies drowning in too many inches of rainwater.
I drink more coffee than I should.
I sit for long minutes and I think long thoughts and I think he’s right.
About God’s invitation to live more, do less, anyway.
Heck, God has moved me to slow-down town where everything closes at 9pm.
He has shrunk my comings and goings to a few square miles and shut me up in the house with my kids, friends’ kids, and the kids from down the street.
He has amplified my sore muscles and aching head and need for Him and beckoned me to come and sit.
To stop making crazy and to just come, rest, and use my unique best to make much of Him,
To be filled by Him in the place He has given me to write.
So that I may slow down and make much of Him.
For in the using my unique best, to honor the One writing the story, it is not work, friend.
It is pure joy.
I glance at the calendar and I mark my own days.
It’s day 19, in my Summer of Saying No.
Less doing, more living my unique best, more Jesus.