Author: Nancy Swihart

I am a mother of three, grandma (Oma) of eleven, and wife of a wise and energetic husband. We are retired (me from teaching, Judd from counseling) and are enjoying a time of reflection, a time of volunteering and serving, and a time of stretching to meet the new challenges of ordering our days that we may present to Him hearts of wisdom.
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The Kitten Creek Gang and Trash Talk

I turn over and try to focus my eyes on the digital clock by my bed. It’s 6:30. As my sleep-drugged mind tries to get itself organized, adrenaline kicks in. It’s Thursday so we will be treated to a visit from four young men. I struggle to get my feet to the floor as quickly as this old body will allow. I have about thirty minutes until the boys (Josh will be first) come to check in.

Dubbed “Trash Talk,” Thursday mornings have been cherished by the boys. Thursday is the day the garbage trucks roll down Kitten Creek Road, giving the boys the opportunity to haul garbage cans in an ATV trailer from their homes to the road and have some quality time to chat. Seeing them gathered along the road, talking, laughing, and enjoying every precious minute is quite a sight.

Since they were old enough to push, drag, or haul the trash cans to the edge of Kitten Creek Road, these four boys have been serendipitously meeting every Thursday morning.

Cousins! Born within months of each other, they share a bond that combines laughter, quarrels, creativity, and healthy competition. They call themselves the Kitten Creek Gang.

As grandparents, Judd and I have been fortunate to witness the beautiful growth of our four grandchildren here on Kitten Creek. Caleb, the oldest of these four, and Josh, the youngest, live in the old farmhouse directly across from our home. Obadiah and Malachi, the middle two, live down the lane past our house and across the creek. Homeschooled, their times were controlled by diligent moms who insisted on school work before play, so time together was precious and had to be earned.

Judd and I would watch from the kitchen window as the boys stood along the side of the road and talked, laughed, gestured, and sometimes pushed and wrestled, obviously enjoying every minute. In the first few years, if they lingered too long, we would get a call from a mom saying, ” Can you tell the boys they must come home? It’s time to start school.” When we relayed the message, the boys would immediately scatter, and trash talk would be over for the week.

While some things have changed over the years, “Trash Talk” on Thursday mornings remains a beloved tradition. These days, the boys (14-16 years old) have acquired a bit more autonomy. We can count on all four gathering around our kitchen table for an Oreo and maybe a glass of milk while the “trash talk” continues, usually involving trucks, motors, or cars they are working on.

We realize this is a season. It won’t be long before the boys are grown and scattered, just as their older siblings have done. College, marriage, work, and life will take them far from Kitten Creek. They all have left indelible memories. The beauty of the generations and the creative gift of each individual always leave me almost speechless with thankfulness. Thank you, God, for this chapter of our blessed life!

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A Trip Around The Pasture

Walking in the pasture is a time for talking with God about my day, mulling over a scripture or song running around in my head, interceding for a loved one, or simply praising Him for who He is.

Yesterday was no exception.  As my eyes wandered around the pasture, I praised Him for His incredible gift of nature: this delightful landscape with its tall prairie grass waving in the soft breeze, the purple verbena,  the yellow primrose, the deep blue indigo, the tiny daisy-like flea-bane waving for my attention.

Walking in the pasture, I know I must closely attend to the path and my feet or I will stumble, and  I want to avoid the occasional sprawl I have made into the dust over the years. With my slow gait and focused attention on the path before me, I had time to ponder some of my daily reading. The focus had been on Jesus walking with His disciples on their way to Bethany,  and as I walked I couldn’t help but wonder what it might have been like to have walked with Jesus in His world.

I imagine they walked with purpose. Miles of purpose: to get from town to town, to a wedding.  to a friend’s house for dinner, to Jerusalem for the Passover. Sometimes the journey would have covered sixty to eighty miles to the final destination.

But they would not have been hurried.

Oh, how I would have loved to listen to those conversations. Probably very mundane at times, like, “Master, should we hurry a bit and try to catch up with Peter?” Or, “Master, I am sure you know where we will stay tonight.”

As I walked this Kansas trail, I watched my feet, listened to their shuffling through the low-cut grass, and I imagined Jesus was walking beside me, adjusting His gait to mine. Hesitantly, I talked. I talked a bit about my aches and pains, about the beautiful world He had created here; rambling talk about my world and my ponderings.

Finally, I was silent. And He was silent. But it was the kind of silence so comfortable I felt no more need to talk. It was the kind of silence that said, “Peace, I leave with you. My peace I give unto you. Not as the world gives.”

I was content to walk, quiet in the strength of His presence and promises.

I thought of the world outside of Kitten Creek. The world comes crashing into our lives through the media and bombards us as we step outside of our safe world. That world that is contorted by the forces of evil waging war.

In no hurry to leave His companionship in the pasture, I slowly made my way down the gravel drive to the world below.   Leaving the peaceful pasture, my steps were slow and reluctant. But, I encouraged myself by the Truth of what He had been telling me:

I  carry this peace back into the troubled world because this presence of Christ surrounds me, covers me, and goes before me. I take Jesus with me, not just in my imagination, but in the very real dimension of spiritual grace and presence.

And I can walk with purpose, for I am walking my way to my Heavenly destination.

As I go, hopefully, I won’t rush. I won’t be impatient with the difficult path or cower from the frightening disruptions. And if I sprawl in the dust as I lose focus, He will be there to pick me up and set me back on course.  Halleluja!

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Blessed Be the Tie That Binds

He arrived one morning in a cat carrier, the last duck at  my son’s farm. His destiny was the chopping block if I did not adopt him. Why could I not make room for one more fowl?  I reasoned with myself. I have three white chickens and a little hen-house.  One more body would fit comfortably, and they could be a family.

Gently placing the carrier on the ground,my granddaughter Lillian suggested that since he had hung out with her chickens, he would feel right at home with my chickens. With trepidation, I opened the door to the carrier. Will he stay here on our little patch of Kansas, or will he go like a homing pigeon down the gravel drive from whence he came?

Released from his cage and spotting my three white chickens, the newly acquired duck flapped his wings, lowered his head, and charged after them. I watched in amusement. Chickens had imprinted this duck, and for all he knew he was a chicken and those three were his kin. The chickens, however, looking over their shoulders, knew that this strange thing racing toward them was definitely NOT a chicken.

“Oh, help, oh help,” they squawked desperately running from this intruder for all their little legs could go. “Wait, wait!!!” quacked the duck running as fast as his short, webbed feet could go. And the chase was on.

It would take about a week before the duck would be considered an insider in this little band of fowls.

We all yearn to belong, to be insiders.  We overhear three friends enjoying each other’s company,  but we are outside the circle. Laughter floats from the yard next door while we sit on the deck, alone. We listen to someone’s plan for a day-trip, and our big plan is mowing the yard.  Two young women sit huddled together sharing their hearts with each other. Deep in our innermost being is the cry, “Oh, wait, oh wait. Let me be one of you. I want to hang out with you. I want to spend time with you; I want to be known, be loved . . . belong.

Unlike the duck and the chickens, we do  belong to the same species. We were created for intimacy, for friendship, for belonging.

We sing,  “Blest be the tie that binds/ our hearts in Christian love.” What is the tie that binds? Is it real? Is it enough? And if it is, then why do I feel lonely? Is it even possible to be satisfied with that “tie that binds?” Or am I wanting more?

No easy answer here. Or is there? Perhaps a better understanding of that “tie,” (The Holy Spirit, the Comforter, the Teacher) is essential to finding an answer. When we correctly understand the miracle of an “Indwelling Spirit,” we will begin to grow in our feelings of belonging.  The indwelling of the Holy Spirit is the very foundation of our “belonging.”  The rest, that connection with others, will be built upon this  foundation.

“Never alone”; “I will never leave you nor forsake you.”; “Christ lives in me.” (See the link for more assurances: https://bible.knowing-jesus.com/topics/Indwelling-Of-The-Holy-Spirit).

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“Come”

 

” Come.”

You are calling out to me, Jesus,

“Come.” How often I have heard it in the recesses of my mind.

“Come.”

But it doesn’t ring out above the other voices, those loud and demanding voices.  Yours is soft and gentle, and I have to stop and listen carefully to hear it:

“Come.”

Instead, I listen to the call that demands productivity: “Get it done, now.”

Rather than lying in bed and listening to that still, small voice first thing in the morning, I sleep in until Judd awakes, and then dash to get dressed, make the bed, and get the coffee pot going.

And you say “Come.”

 

Waiting for the coffee, I look out the kitchen window and see the chickens pacing in the coop waiting to be released, the donkey and goat standing at the gate expectantly watching the kitchen window for a glimpse of movement. And they say, “Come.”

I must do chores . . . now.

I also know that on the other side of the door to the garage there is a cat, sitting on his haunches, staring at the door and listening carefully to my footsteps inside the house. As I open the door to the garage, Tom jumps up and walks me to his dish. I give him a pat on the head, feed him, and go out to the pen.

And, instead of worshiping while I minister to these, my pets, my dear charges,  I am hurrying. Why? The next thing is waiting to be done. “Be productive” is the voice I hear.

And you, standing in the shadows, softly say, “Come.”

But now, Jesus, other voices drown out your sweet voice.

Because we are anxious to hear what is happening in the world., we eat our breakfast in front of the television.

I know you are in ultimate control of the world’s situation and I want to see what you are doing. That is my rationale for going back again and again to those voices.

But the news is delivered in anxiety-producing verbiage. A devastating, catastrophic storm is approaching the western coast of Florida. Russia is threatening nuclear war.  North Korea is sending up intercontinental ballistic missiles. The entire world is suffering and in turmoil: floods, fires, starvation, and civil unrest.

And godlessness. I hear the values You have tried to teach us being trampled by an ungodly culture.

While I listen to those voices, your voice is crowded out and I am a bit like Peter. You say to come, but I am watching the waves of this unsettled world. So I lose the comfort of your voice and your calming presence and the waves begin to flood over my soul.

And more voices are calling. Those voices hit my ears, invade my space, control my thoughts, compel me to listen.

I remember a dream I had years ago:

………………………………………………………………………………………………

There are two ways to reach the rocky road that leads to the pasture. One is through the barnyard which usually means going through several gates; the other is around the top of the barn, past the double sliding doors, along the roof of the old stable, through a wooded area, and upward to the open pasture.

At that time I had been busy and was stuck in the mundane existence of daily life. My world had become smaller, duller, and ordinary. No great inspiration compelled me to do my daily prayer walk or even expect my regular quiet time to inspire me. I was experiencing a gray world, one of those times when life was just Boring.

Then I took a walk.

I had decided to take the trail past the top of the barn.

The same old, gray world met my senses. I walked past the top of the barn, past the doors, and through the gate.

However, as I began the steep climb to the pasture, my gaze fell upon something I had never seen here before: A lush, ivy-covered hillside had replaced the rocky soil of the forest. Hidden in a crevice was a low, stone grotto. The air I breathed was soft and perfumed.

At the side of the trail, a white-robed figure emerged and quietly walked toward me, stretching out his hands. Though I had never seen him before, I instantly recognized him. He was loving, though somehow fierce; inviting, yet not safe; gentle, yet strong.

I stopped, amazed at what I saw. My eyes filled with tears, my heart with shame. His soft voice cut into my soul: “Yes, Nancy, I have been waiting here for you to come for a long time.”

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….

The shock woke me from my dream. I lay in the darkened bedroom in a mixture of awe and worship. “I wait,” he said, “sometimes in surprising places to remind you that I am always here. Always. . . if you open your eyes to see.”

To this day, as I walk past the bend in the path and look at the wooded hillside,I sometimes look for that grotto and that stranger. I remind myself that, even though I can’t see Him with my eyes, He is there. He is here. He is waiting and He calls “Come.”

Os Guinness uses the phrase a world without windows to describe today’s culture that has denied the supernatural. Only what we can see, taste, and feel with our senses is real. And when that world is harsh, gray, or painful, it is all we have.

My life was charged with Reality in the next few days, weeks, and months after that dream. I had had the kind of encounter that wakens the soul in expectation.

However, I also move and have my being in that world without windows, and it is easy to fall back into a dazed existence, one where I feel no need for God in any area of my life. I grow blind, once again, to the world that Gerard Manly Hopkins so aptly describes as “charged with the grandeur of God.”

Today, I am not suffering from dullness or boredom. Just the opposite. I am filled with creeping, lurking anxiety. I am burdened. My soul is burdened. I need rest.

Jesus, You say, “Come to me all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy and my burden is light.”

Yes, Jesus, I am weary. I need the rest only You can give. Rest for my soul.

The old song “Just as I am,” the one we used to sing for sinners, is ringing in my heart. Well, I am a sinner. And I come, just as I am. Weary, needing to learn more of You. And I won’t wait because I know You are patiently waiting to teach me, to fill me with the peace that only you can offer.

Just as I am and waiting not, I come.

”https://youtu.be/HZV5fwmqsI0

 

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Bethlehem Revisited

Ah, life feels more typical these days! Last Sunday, a menagerie of people from young to elderly filled our living /dining area. All of them with vital roles in the planning and execution of Bethlehem Revisited.

Shut down for a year; once again, we are planning our annual Christmas event. Bethlehem Revisited is central to much that goes on here at the farm. Our grandchildren have grown up living through all of the stages:  planning meetings, workdays, the days of the event, which usually begin early in the day with preparation for that day and into the late hours of closing down for each day, and the final clean-up afterward. For them, it means not just work, but community, a vital community, working together for an eternal good: telling the story of Redemption.

A few years ago, I felt compelled to write about the story of the farm, to show how God walked with us through all the years of unwrapping His presence through everyday life. In the midst of that walk, Bethlehem Revisited emerged as a vital component of how God desired to use this farm. My book, Searching for His Presence, On Kitten Creek, was written for all who have or will visit the farm. The book is my testimony of the faithfulness of a God who yearns to make every moment holy.

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“Wokeness” on Kitten Creek

The weather in Kansas can be fickle. Countless times this year, we have watched the threatening clouds bear down on Kitten Creek and then watch in amazement as the storm circles left or to the right and totally misses us. Sooner or later, though, we get the storms. So we prepare.

Presently, we are watching the threatening thunderstorms forming in our larger, cultural surroundings. We are not naive. Inevitable cultural pressure is coming (and presently seeping) into the area that surrounds our community. We are preparing.

One of the storms forming around us is a “woke” culture, filled with judgment for anyone who is not “woke.”

What does a “woke culture”  look like on the farm on Kitten Creek? In spite of the influences of a very invasive culture, somehow, at least for now, we continue to be grounded, secure, and strong.

Time for Reflection Grounds Us  

In December, Dan T. built a 6-foot-long rustic bench for Sara”s Christmas present. That bench is now a welcome invitation for everyone who walks in the pasture. It beckons walkers to take time to rest and reflect as they view Wildcat Valley.

Reflection on what God has done in our past, what He is doing in the present, and what He is going to do grounds us.  We must not simply be “woke,” but we must be awake to the Truth that is found in pondering the mighty God who created and is sovereign over this fallen yet Spirit-filled world. He, the God of the universe, is alive and working through the storm clouds that swirl about us.

That truth grounds us.

Reinforcing Foundations Secures Us

New rock wall for the manger scene The old stable that encloses Baby Jesus, Mary, and Joseph during Bethlehem Revisited was threatening to crumble and fall. During the summer of COVID, Dan T., along with the other boys and men on the farm, pulled down the unstable rocks and rebuilt a beautiful solid wall, replacing the same rocks, rock-by-rock. The stable will be safe and secure for years to come as visitors come and gather around that little manger to remember and worship the birth two thousand years ago.

As we build our foundation on the Holy Scriptures, stone by stone and line upon within our families, we are building a secure and safe foundation for generations to come. We do not re-invent, nor do we reinterpret Scripture to be more relevant.

“A mighty fortress is our God, a bulwark never failing.”

Working Together in Community Equals Strength

This past summer, the Kitten Creek Gang (i.e., KCG or Troyer/Swihart cousins, ages 10-15) decided to upgrade their building skills from a treehouse to a real cabin. All five of them were involved in choosing the “secret spot,” drawing up plans, gathering supplies, and building together. Even the wheel-chair bound cousin was an integral part of the planning and building. Gifts emerged. Strengths developed.

Parents and grandparents revel in watching harmony and ingenuity develop in the young lads. The cabin is now equipped with a wood stove, hand-built beds, windows, and doors that lock.

Our children have learned the secret of community and hard work. They have discovered that we thrive as we share our gifts, time, and knowledge.

We are strong.

Together as a community (grandparents, parents, children, neighbors, and friends), we face the storm clouds that are stirring in our culture.

 

 

 

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Hope and Peace

May the God of hope fill you with all joy and peace as you trust in him, so that you may overflow with hope by the power of the Holy Spirit.       Romans 15:13

I breathe in the clean, crisp air of a new morning. The rain has washed the landscape, my geraniums and petunias are bursting in their brilliant reds, purples, and whites. Familiar warbles and bird-songs in the trees above, a gentle baa from the barnyard, and I relax with my cup of coffee, content to know that this is my Father’s world.

He is the God of hope, and yes, he does fill me with all joy and peace . . . at this moment.

But what if I were in the middle of the fires that our neighbors are facing? What if I had been told last night that my loved one had been killed in an accident? What if I had listened to the news before I had my first cup of coffee?

Would God still be my source who fills me with joy and peace and hope?

 Joy. Peace. Hope. Is there any hope left in this fallen world threatened by extinction from virus, political upheaval, storms, fires, and violence? From where do joy and peace come when every newscast is brimming with the degradation of our culture?   Despair would be more natural.

Yet, I find hope, not by the world’s standards, nor because of my own optimistic soul. I find hope in a sovereign God. And I find joy and peace because I trust him to refill me again and again through the power of the Holy Spirit.

Yes, I am not alone, nor am I facing this world in my own power, with my own strength, with my own wisdom. This most comforting thought sustains my hope, peace, and yes, joy.

It is not optimism to trust all His promises. And I know those promises because I know Him.

Now faith is confidence in what we hope for and assurance about what we do not see.

Romans 15:13 | NIV | faith Spirit Holy Spiri

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COVID Confusion?

I opened my eyes and looked at the clock. Sunday morning and it is seven-fifteen. The alarm should have gone off. I jumped (or rolled) out of bed and quickly donned my clothes. Although we are now watching church on-line during the COVID era, Sunday is special.

Judd remained in bed. That should have been my first clue.

Hurrying to the kitchen, I turned on the coffee pot, grabbed some Panera bagels from the freezer (we always have some kind of sweet rolls on Sunday), and made my way to the garage to begin my daily chores: feed the cats, fill the grain canisters, and make my way to the barnyard.

It could not have been a more beautiful morning! My heart was full of joy, and I softly sang: “Good morning, Lord, it’s great to see the sun again . . . “

The chickens and ducks, happy to be released from the pen, ran quickly to their bowls of grain.

Since Donkey and Goat were visiting the Troyer’s front pasture, I made my way across the gravel road to drop them a little grain and say “good morning.”

On my way back to the house, I stopped to check for the Sunday paper. The box was empty.

That should have been my second clue.

Grace Baptist’s curch service was scheduled for 8:00, so after grabbing a cup of coffee and a bagel, I began trying to check in to Facebook for the service. I was having a difficult time getting it to come up.

That should have been my third clue.

When Judd emerged from the bedroom, he noticed breakfast on the table and questioned, “So we have bagels this morning?”

“Well, yeees,” I replied as I continued looking frantically for the church service, “at least I am.” Judd went out to the front porch to enjoy his coffee and bagel.

Fourth clue that I was missing.

I gave up. Frustrated from searching and not finding a live service by now, I figured that there must be a glitch in technology.

 

Fifth clue?

Looking out the kitchen window, I noticed the Troyers were still home. They had started going back to church once it had opened, but with the virus currently in pandemic mode, we older folks were not going.

Maybe someone in the Troyer family was sick and they decided to stay home. So, I called Sara to find out.

“Why didn’t you go to church this morning?” I wondered aloud as she answered the phone.

“Go to church? Why would I go to church this morning?” She sounded very puzzled.

“Well, isn’t it Sunday?” By now I was beginning to feel a little bewildered myself.

“Mom, it is Wednesday.”

Okay, this is not easy to admit, but I had lost my sense of time. Is this what being in a sort-of house arrest does to you? Was I “tetched” by COVID?

For several days after that, as Judd and I lay in bed in the morning, I would say jokingly, “Is it Sunday morning, yet?”

BUT, what if no one had corrected me? Since I thought I was living in Sunday, should anyone correct me? Wasn’t what I imagined or felt important?

Or was it better to be brought back to some sense of reality?

I prefer reality, and if it takes someone living in a rational world to reflect that reality to me, please, for the sake of my sense and soul, and regardless of what our culture says today, please tell me Truth.

 

 

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on neighborly social distancing

Thud! Judd and I had just settled into our recliners in the living room. That strange sound had come from outside the kitchen window.

“What in the world was that?” I leaned forward, my eyes scanning the dining area to the kitchen. What I saw caused me to giggle and jump from my chair.

Our neighbor’s chickens have not heard of social distancing. Every morning for weeks they had been coming across the brome field to accompany me in my morning chores of feeding two chickens, two ducks, a goat, and a donkey. And then, they gravitate to the bird feeder.

Judd feeds the birds, and ever since our grandson, Hezekiah, has taken to bird-watching in a very serious manner, Judd has become more heavily invested in that bird-feeder. And he did not consider feeding chickens as part of the deal.

It became a ritual: every time he saw the chickens under his bird feeder pecking away at the kernels that had fallen to the ground, he would run out and chase them away . . . only for them to return as soon as he disappeared into the house.

The familiar scene became entertainment for our grandchildren who could watch from their large dining room window across the road while they completed their homeschool assignments.

At last, Judd decided it would take more than just chasing them from the bird feeder. With great resolve, he would shout, wave his arms, and chase them all the way across the brome field to their own chicken pen. It worked.

However, several days later, two of the hens, a Barred Rock and a rusty Americana, began to venture back to our yard, mostly hanging out with my chickens from across the fence. Within days, they became aware that I lived in this house, I brought grain from this house, and I fed chickens.

The scene that had brought a smile to my face was directly outside my kitchen window. Stretching to see inside were four beady-eyed chicken heads perched on two scrawny necks. The hens were sitting on the back of the porch swing, balancing like trapeze artists, and peeking in the kitchen window looking for that “lady-who-feeds-chickens.”

I thought they were cute; Judd did not. Running out the door Judd pursued those poor friendly chickens across the yard. The Americano ran to the donkey pen and flew up into a tree. The Barred Rock ran home.

The next morning, I found the Americano in the pen with my chickens. It did not take many days for the Barred Rock to join her sister in her new environment. They had finally figured out how to safely get fed by the lady-who-feeds-chickens without getting chased by the man-who-feeds-birds.

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I’ll take the ‘stay-at-home’ order . . . please

The order for the last few months has been, “For your safety and the safety of others, please stay at home.” COVID-19 has brought monumental challenges to this world and smaller challenges to my personal world.

My daily life right now consists of three basic postures: (1) facing-the-daily- grind kind of things, (2) trying to stay in tune to His voice, and (3) trying to trace His hand in the events that are taking place.

And I am content. It is not that life is easy, but I find I have interior-ized something that my Russian mentor, Catherine de Heuck Doherty, taught me. In her book, Poustinia, Catherine was teaching the Western culture about the Eastern view of a hermitage. Not able to live in a secluded cabin as the old hermits did, we have the presence of God (our private little cabin) within us. I have carried that image for many years: My home is in me, so, in reality, I am always at home.

I Am at home; He is at home in me (John 15:5). And this sovereign God who is at home in me has everything in HIs sovereignly control.

But . . . I am still faced with living out the daily grind of the (almost) house-bound existence.

Days get confusing. Ooops, this is Thursday. We forgot to put the trash out.

I order my groceries only to find out I must wait over a week for a pick-up time.

I am looking at the Brady-bunch style of Zooming with my friends when I would rather be welcoming them into my home with a warm hug.

I wave at my neighbors driving down Kitten Creek Road, but I really have no idea how they are doing during this difficult time.

I wander around the house in a fog at times, not motivated to mop the floor, dust the furniture, or wash the windows (even though they need it) because I can do it tomorrow or the next day or the next day or the next day and no one is coming anyway.

Yet, I love my house, and I am at Home. The Spirit of God ministers peace, contentment, and yes, even joy.

My second posture is to attempt to stay in tune with the voice of God. For me, that means getting up early in the morning when I can savor a time of solitude with the Word. I need to hear His voice to cancel out the noise of the media that shouts alarming and sometimes/constantly(?) untruthful messages.

My good-old Poustinia book speaks once again to me here:

Stand still, and allow the deadly restlessness of our tragic age to fall away like the worn-out, dusty cloak that it is. . . Stand still, and lifting your hearts and hands to God, pray that the mighty wind of his Holy Spirit may clear all the cobwebs of fears, selfishness, greed, and narrow-heartedness away from your soul. Pray that his tongues of flame may descend to give you the courage to begin again.   All this standing still can be done in the midst of the outward noise of daily living and the duties of state in life. For it will bring order in the soul, God’s order, and God’s order will bring tranquility (45).

The third posture that I take is to lean into the sovereignty of God. I am limited to a very mortal body. I cannot possibly address all of the pain in my world. However, with prayer, I can take that phone call from a heart-broken friend; I can encourage my friends who are suffering from low self-esteem, anxiety, fear with words of encouragement; I can practice patience and share love with my dear extroverted husband as we work through our house-boundedness together.

As I wait in the midst of it all, I can repeat, “I wonder what God is doing now?”