Quarter to three, late August, cool, breezy day. I sit under old pines at the lake’s boat launch, where we drove with a picnic, to settle into pine fragrance and sun shimmer off water and just enjoy the quiet.
Another group, but with voices subdued, have unpacked their picnic at a spot not far from me, but only minutes ago. They’re eating now, and may leave soon after they fill up with food and fleeting fellowship.
I sit here alone now because Husband was chilly in the shadows, and the table they claimed was the partially sunlit spot to which he was about to migrate. So he’s gone up the hill a bit to bask in warmer air. But it’s all sun there, too glaring for my eyes to read or write, and not near the lake’s light lapping.
So I stay. Whenever my sandaled feet and Capri-bared ankles chill, I walk them to patches of light nearby, let sun rays toast them warmer, then return. I’m glad that before I left the house I grabbed the wool cardigan now cozying my back and shoulders. And glad I grabbed something else…
The water shimmers in broad stripes of sun and shade-water made green by tree reflection from the opposite shore. A crow caws in the distance, light laughter floats over the water, crickets drone all around.
He did this for me, I think gratefully, drove me here like this, to give me respite from the sequestering my fading vision’s bringing on. Here feels a bit like lakeside Canada, without the loons, and oh, I was so wishing for lakeside Canada!
Yet this is also a revisit to where, exactly where, I used to come sometimes to write when things got noisy at home, or just because I felt like it. Right here I’d park my laptop, on this weather-warped rough wood and tap out words as they’d come in intermittent runs. I think maybe I could still safely make this trip alone, via some back roads. But this is nice, with husband near, yet at some distance, solitude yet not oblivion.
I can almost hear the conversation from the nearby group. They seem to be telling bear and skunk tales to one another, talk not unpleasant to have nearby, talk made soft by courtesy and pine needle’s muffling and just the tone of this place which seems to whisper, “Hush.”
I have a quarter bottle of Snapple left from lunch and a still untouched Baby Ruth from the ma-and-pa store on the way here, my camera, my pen, my journal, and a cache of books I grabbed just before heading out the back door and stuffed into the canvas bag now beside me.
I draw out my volume of choice, open it, read but a few words and sigh more gratitude, thankful I have this with me, thankful for what I’m reading.
For God’s voice comes through it, echoing what He’s lately spoken via other means:Live My presence every moment. Breathe it, for it is your very Life and Breath. ~
“Breath” or “breathe” have come repeatedly this week, and in this context of God’s life in us. First from Husband, then from a fellow blogger, then from her blog’s comments, and now here at this picnic bench, in Andrew Murray’s Waiting on God:
“Even in the regenerate man there is no power of goodness in himself: he has and can have nothing that he does not each moment receive; and waiting on God is just as indispensible, and must be as continuous and unbroken, as the breathing that maintains his natural life.” (Chapter 1, “First Day.”)
[This was August 29, first day of my vacation from blogging. I came apart to meet with God. And by His grace I did. Since then, God has done an amazing thing with my eyesight. You can read about it here.]