Still? When am I still?
My hands are busy holding, doing. My mind is busy thinking, planning. My ears are busy listening, trying not to hear.
But He commands me, just as He commanded the waves that day—“be still.”
I step outside. The wind that He bid be still is whispering. The earth that He made is literally singing forth His praise.
Somehow, out here, with the sun at my back and the wind in my face, it’s easier to be still. Easier to listen. Easier to hear.
Maybe the expanse of sky is less distracting than the expanse of dirty dishes. Maybe there’s less that’s just stuff and more that points to the all-wise Creator.
Maybe I’m just a farmer’s wife, a country girl, who feels closer to her Maker when walking the dust He formed man from.
But when I need to be still, I step outside where nothing is still and yet everything still points to Him.