I watch the photos change one by one, remembering each face as it comes, remembering even which ones come next on some frames. I know these faces, but I wish I knew their hearts. I long to read their words, all of them, to know what brought them to this time and place, their hurts and their celebrations and challenges and failings and dreams and fears.
Why would He let them come if I am not to know their thoughts?
I read of bubbles and light and children's laughter and I remember. My throat constricts and I swallow pain wanting the release of weeping. Not yet.
He gave me this time. This time, right now.
Chapter 4 is where I started underlining. I've found plenty worthy of highlighting in the first three chapters, but the fourth is where I couldn't restrain myself and my hand reached out and grabbed my pen and dove for the page.
I was struck while watching the video by the connection between Eucharisteo and Communion. We commonly call "communion" the "eucharist". I hadn't made the connection, until now, between what we call "communion"--the breaking of bread and drinking of the cup in remembrance of Him--and close, intimate communication with Him. Communion. Togetherness. In the here and now, this moment.
Life is an emergent sea.
He said, "Taste and see that the Lord is good."
I am all here right now, in this moment with Him, the I AM.
This is where true living happens.
This is where I learn why I live.
This is where I am free to truly love this life.
Ann said, "I just want enough time."
I found the Family Journal yesterday and read quotes from the kids when they were little, and it hit me hard how precious each thought was and is, how valuable each childlike word. I suddenly feel old and a little lost as I ponder the little one of three quoted moments before now preparing to turn twenty. The years took wing and hurried on too fast and here I am at the dining table brushing teardrops off an old beat-up purple notebook falling apart at the spiraled edges and stained with chocolate.
Bubbles burst and float away. I only have these moments for a too-tiny bit of time. God, why do they have to be so fragile?
I might be onto something.
Ann: "I just want time to do my one life well."
What does that mean, "to do my one life well"? How does one live a life well?
Seed: I am gently reminded to grasp at, to be aware of, to describe in vivid detail, to capture and preserve in whatever creative forms possible, to be thankful for...each single moment and the multi-faceted gift it is.
Water: I am constantly, fervently, longingly praying for more awareness, more alertness to the gifts. I want to live fully awake. Fully alive. Fully aware.
Bloom: Thankfulness, joyful gratitude, the resulting grace. That, I think, is how one lives a life well.