Shalom

Sunlight eagerly pours through white windowpanes, spilling its warmth and hope across my soft chairs, onto my knee, pooling on the floor. A little bird is hailing the day star and Arvo Pärt's Nunc dimittis gently adds its soft refrain.

A friend gifted me a set of four, Polish pottery luncheon plates, one of which is now full with a burst of raspberries, lustrous orange slices, and butter-seared banana bread. My globe-like green Polish mug is nestled on my lap, counter-balancing the morning breeze, keeping me just right.

Something about Spring mornings feels enlivening and hopeful, it feels like home. Something about Spring pushes me to dust dressers, window ledges, and chair legs. It reorders my time and my newly-polished spaces. I often choose to have fresh flowers in my home, but today I have a mason jar full of dried lavender for the sun to warm. There is also a cheery bunch of tiny purple waxflowers and their still-smaller buds, overflowing from a simple glass vase.

There is an excitement in Spring that I cannot overlook in my deep love for Winter. Everywhere I turn is life, light, and freshness. At least, in the natural world, that is what I see. I see the rhythms that have always been continuing. And that is where I want to rest this morning—not to forget the pall that has fallen over our world—but for now, to be present to the renewed order, teeming life, and refreshing breeze all speaking "Peace, be still" to my soul.

Think of the disciples in the storm-tossed boat. They could only see, experience, and think about the raging squall around them. Jesus was sleeping, not unconcerned, but in full trust. As that joyful little bird trills his heart out, I want to join him. As the sun warms the earth, I want to bask in it. As the Father whispers, Peace. Be still, I want to sink into this place of rest, trust, and hope.