God of Small Spaces

purple-flowers-on-the-garden-wall         

          The days of the week have been filled to the brim with good work and busy delights. There has been so much to do, some of it happy, some – not so. But I took myself to each one with vigour and determination, little suns bursting within me at the little trees of support I received along the way.

          So, it was no surprise that I came to the rain-blessed violet dawn of today, physically tired from the weeks of work crammed into short days. I had missed two morning Holy Hours because I had overslept, and to compensate, I had offered quick, gasped prayers, but they were like arrows sent without aim. Barely had I thought a prayer~line when I was dashing off to the next task.

          Throughout the hours of the work day, the sun remained in indecision, over to show itself or not, while I, on the other hand, happily and steadfastly, remained at the helm of work. Surrounded by clouds of cheery banter, there was good progress.

          Then, in the midst of it, I felt a seed drop into my heart. I felt it sprout and grow. Within breaths, I sensed it tree into a soft, gentle sadness. Like a mist cloud, it quietly slipped into the deeps of my busy spirit.

          My colleagues were busily bustling around and merriness tinkled all around me. Yet, in the briefest of moments, I was tugged away from the chimes of the world, to face a sadness inside me that was not mine.

          I was feeling the sadness of my God.

          The Lord of my inner temple, who had sat long and lonely at His window, waiting for my dawn seeking that never really came. He had watched over me all through the days, as I worked, and as I slept. He had sent me His love in many blooms, and I had grabbed them all in a rush, without a backward glance at the Giver.

           Just two days of tardiness.

          But as deep a wounding of my Lord’s heart as any other failing.

          As I stood within the roots of my inner garden, gazing up at the tree whose branches swayed in hurt, I learned anew that late or not, rushed off my feet or not, something must always make way to allow for my quiet time with God. That despite the insistent beckoning of time and needs, I must cloister myself with the Most High before the day sets its traps for me. It is my call to clear the cluttered shelf to make the space for God. It is for me to not allow excuses to drop anchor, where the will fails.  

          For my God is as much the God of the wide plains and towering summits of my sorrows and tribulations, as He is of the small spaces, wedged amongst the busy calls of work and life.

 

 

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