For some reason, the call of the spirit came strong for me long weeks past Pentecost. For the first time in my life, I am sensing a humbling of my own soul before the Holy Spirit, and immediate bend of my own wayward spirit, in recognition of Who is Master, and who is not.
Despite the almighty ruckus within me as I banged my head against every post in a deep inner struggle, my relationship with the Spirit has changed in some way I cannot find adequate enough words for yet. In the past week, more so. A deepening. A stilling.
A woodpecker with his cape of royal red is intrigued by the trunk of one the trees that borders my property. Resting my eyes on the regally attired bird, a sultry amber breeze weaves a gentle path through green crossings.
Gently, slowly, the winds reach me and quietly rest a caution on my spirit: the time of waters is getting close.