Pretend you're with me, even though you're not. Pretend we can spend the hour together, wandering my favorite block, my route through Revelation. (For I memorize while I walk, you see.)
We'll go up the hill toward the cemetery, craning our necks to look at the sky through the canopy of barely-budding trees, and maybe even run into a friend or two along the way. (Who knew so many people would walk in the cemetery of an evening?)
On our own again, we'll slow down to listen as the water ripples under the bridge, nourishing as it goes. "His voice," we'll recall, "is as the sound of many waters." Yes, even His voice feeds the soul as its sound waves pass through, simply for the listening. And with the nourishing comes strength to be, to grow, to do, to bear both burdens and fruit.
We'll stop here. I'll sit on the cement beside the creek, wishing with all my heart that the barbed wire fence had never been strung across the edge of the bridge. How I miss dangling my feet over the edge, freely, as I did when I first started college here. We'll pray here, too, and perhaps I'll even hear your voice while we both pray, if I have your number and I can get you on the phone.
Another evening, we might stop here, in the light, to open hearts to the light of God's glory, seeking Him, knocking on heaven's door (or was that opening our hearts' doors, that He might come in and sup with us, and we with Him?), asking for the blessings only God can give.
Another day, the sun might be out, and we'll go walking again--in the morning this time. It'll be so beautiful out that it will seem like heaven, but for the budding goat heads.
Do enjoy the spring with my any time. It's my delight to have you.
We'll go up the hill toward the cemetery, craning our necks to look at the sky through the canopy of barely-budding trees, and maybe even run into a friend or two along the way. (Who knew so many people would walk in the cemetery of an evening?)
On our own again, we'll slow down to listen as the water ripples under the bridge, nourishing as it goes. "His voice," we'll recall, "is as the sound of many waters." Yes, even His voice feeds the soul as its sound waves pass through, simply for the listening. And with the nourishing comes strength to be, to grow, to do, to bear both burdens and fruit.
We'll stop here. I'll sit on the cement beside the creek, wishing with all my heart that the barbed wire fence had never been strung across the edge of the bridge. How I miss dangling my feet over the edge, freely, as I did when I first started college here. We'll pray here, too, and perhaps I'll even hear your voice while we both pray, if I have your number and I can get you on the phone.
Another evening, we might stop here, in the light, to open hearts to the light of God's glory, seeking Him, knocking on heaven's door (or was that opening our hearts' doors, that He might come in and sup with us, and we with Him?), asking for the blessings only God can give.
Another day, the sun might be out, and we'll go walking again--in the morning this time. It'll be so beautiful out that it will seem like heaven, but for the budding goat heads.
Do enjoy the spring with my any time. It's my delight to have you.
I am so excited to see your writing on screen and experience the beauties of your walk with God. I'm eager to walk with you more.
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Barbara
Thank you for taking us with you, Hildgard!
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