A London fog makes you stop. Makes you slow down.
My word for the year is slow. Up until this point, I have done everything in my willpower to be and do anything but slow. Yet, it’s time to embrace it. I open up my arms and welcome slow.
I was sitting here this morning, and what came to mind was the elderly lady who lives in the apartment next to the mailboxes. I pray for her often as I go to get my mail. Some days, her window is open; other days, her shade is shut. I’m curious about her. She reminds me of Grandma. It reminds me of the days—years—of Grandma‘s life after Grandpa died. She always spoke of being ready to go. Ready to be in heaven with Grandpa.
Those days of waiting—what was that like for her?
I sit here now. It’s been three days of nothing for me. Well, not nothing. It’s been letting go of things so that I can rest in the Lord. I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.
I wonder what Grandma thought about. I wonder what the lady at my apartment complex—let’s call her Joan—thinks about.
After all, you sit. You wait. Things are paid for. Nothing else is on the agenda.
I guess I really resonate with them—sitting and waiting.
Doing things doesn’t suffice sometimes. It only makes things worse, to the point that you’d rather just sit in the silence and wait.
Sometimes I wonder—I don’t know what it is I am waiting for.
Ultimately, I know I want to be with the Lord in heaven. Yet I know this has been an excuse, an escape from reality, a way to not deal. A coping mechanism.
There is something somber about this moment in time. It’s gloomy out. The raindrops fall sporadically onto my deck. I feel sullen.
Once again, I am faced with my deepest ache, my deepest pain—that nothing here satisfies.
Is it bad that I don’t like the answer that Jesus satisfies?
Does He truly satisfy me if I can’t really enjoy anything here?
No rain, no flowers.
These days have to look like this if we want May flowers.
Why is my heart so sad? Why is my body so weak?
Why do I want to die?
Is this momentary pain worth living?
Yes. A million times over—yes.
I don’t know what is set before me, but I have an inkling. It ought to be good.
April showers bring May flowers.
It’s been raining in my soul for some time now. It clears, and then it comes—that all-too-familiar pitter-patter of drops in the depths of my being.
Something I love about a London fog—I just discovered today…
The taste is subtle and light. It’s the kind of drink that, to enjoy, you must stop. Sip slowly. Take it in and distinguish the flavors. Each one subtle, but there. Only to be appreciated with a quiet heart and mind.
A mind focused on “mmm, London fog.”
That’s the only agenda.
London fog.
Amen.
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