The sun rose all sorts of orange and pinks this morning, with the moon grinning down on it, and the birds whistling it into the sky. I videoed it but did not appreciate it, I guess. It was yet another blur in the sleepwalking of these past few days. The color they have been in my mind is not sunrise but grey. Took my bike off my car just a bit before 8 am. It had a low tire. Fixable, but it gave me a pause. Against common sense, I felt like the Lord put his hand on my shoulder, and earlier in my closet as well: "Be still. This is a morning for staying home."

So I did.

I sat down with coffee and the book of Philemon and read. I laughed myself silly watching my friend attempt to shoe a belligerent moth out of her room. I read a story about an old man who loved horses with his whole heart who died the other day, and who is maybe galloping heaven's hills on "Big Red" right this moment. But I don't know how time in heaven works. I was reminded of my young horse, Vale, dead and gone for two years now, and wondered if she'd meet me at the opening up of eternity, thought about when I die and who might be waiting for me there, thought about meeting the Master of that land face to face.. and my mind was pulled back to a book I read recently, called Peace Like A River. There's a scene where the boy is running along the river, moving through orchards and singing through waving grass. And his father meets him there, runs alongside him, "further up and further in," arms wheeling and face "incandescent." Only the boy had to turn back. You should read it.

I went back and read the scene, soaked it in, and cried a bit ridiculously with joy and wonder. And I thanked God for the book and the morning and the moment. Then I went on a walk. One of those rare feelings crept over me, the one where the bird song is no longer just noise, but a bountiful rejoicing, where colors are intentional and every step, every sight, feels like a present wrapped neatly under the Christmas tree with your name written on the tag. It was one of those times when I knew that He (the Lord) knew this place intimately: the field I walked in, the apartment I lived in, that He knew me intimately, and was even now walking with me as I watched the workers up on the roof, as I compared the shades of the sky and the limbs of the pine trees, as I talked to him about my thoughts. He reminded me that the language of His word is constantly calling us to rejoice, and how I hadn't been making time or thought for that at all. I'd been mostly mourning, and for no good reason. So I wrote this to remind you of it as well this morning. Whatever you're doing, whatever you're feeling: rejoice! Christ is risen. The victory is won. His glory is abundant in all the earth, though mingled with sorrows and sin for now. And if you know Him, He's prepared a place for you, and walks with you even now, singing over you with joy, maybe even with a silly grin. He constantly describes Himself as the Good Shepherd. Believe it. Do not let the rocks and the fields glorify His name in your place today.

"Be still and know that I am God. I will exalted among the nations; I will be exalted in all the earth." - Psalm 46:10