Once again, Anne's blog post melts my heart and makes me glad that she is REAL and authentic, because I can relate, as many of us can....(full post here)
She says:
"...I remember what the Farmer said when I first met him and asked why he was so quiet and he quoted Proverbs, that in many words are many sins, and I have spoken too much of late, said too many things, and I question them, wonder, and why not joy instead of a thorn, wallflower instead of brimstone, and I think about this: the making of an ambition of quietness and the way of grace…
I lay on our bed and I liquid murmur that I am not smart enough for any of this, that I fail miserably and everyday and I’m getting so much wrong, and how do you really invest just one life and what about the laundry? And the Farmer he draws me onto his chest and he strokes back my hair, wraps one strand around a finger… and he is quiet. Because sometimes it’s only silence that simply waits that can hear God.
The man is a farmer. He feels wind and he knows rain. He breathes prayers. He pulls me close.
It’s after a long quiet that he whispers it into my caverns,
“Remember? He asks for Praise not Perfection… Grace not Grindstone…”
She says:
"...I remember what the Farmer said when I first met him and asked why he was so quiet and he quoted Proverbs, that in many words are many sins, and I have spoken too much of late, said too many things, and I question them, wonder, and why not joy instead of a thorn, wallflower instead of brimstone, and I think about this: the making of an ambition of quietness and the way of grace…
I lay on our bed and I liquid murmur that I am not smart enough for any of this, that I fail miserably and everyday and I’m getting so much wrong, and how do you really invest just one life and what about the laundry? And the Farmer he draws me onto his chest and he strokes back my hair, wraps one strand around a finger… and he is quiet. Because sometimes it’s only silence that simply waits that can hear God.
The man is a farmer. He feels wind and he knows rain. He breathes prayers. He pulls me close.
It’s after a long quiet that he whispers it into my caverns,
“Remember? He asks for Praise not Perfection… Grace not Grindstone…”
With a smile and a kiss, that bulk on my shoulders slips, ice to vapor, and I sink into the mattress and sleep comes, tattered relief."
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