I wonder what it was like Holy Monday.

Was there tension in the air?

Thick and sticky humidity foreshadowing the thunderstorms about to roll in?

I sit here this Holy Monday…slowed almost to a standstill.  Time somehow changed its passing.  I see the day lilies poking their green heads through the front landscaping.  Where have the last four years gone?  It’s been a whirlwind of life and love.  Of family and profession.  Of breaking out of the cocoon to flap in the breeze.  I’ve spent so many days flapping.  Convinced myself that only my wings could keep me afloat.  I forgot to trust the breeze.  To savor the sweet smell of spring.  To sail on the current of another’s flutter.  

But today.  On this Holy Monday.  This Holy Monday I perch on a branch to stop and drink it all in.  It’s not time to do; it’s time to be–be-ing; in the being I am breathing.  Discovering a joy for words I thought had abandoned me forever.  Words cobbled together in other times and other places.  Words telling other people’s stories:

The Lord called me before I was born / while I was in my mother’s womb he named me. / He made my mouth like a sharp sword, in the shadow of his hand he hid me; /  he made me a polished arrow in his quiver he hid me away. / And he said to me, “You are my servant. Israel, in whom I will be glorified.” /  But I said, “I have labored in vain, / I have spent my strength for nothing and vanity; /  yet surely my cause is with the Lord, / and my reward with my God.” (Isaiah 49:1-4)

So many mornings my eyes and heart rush over the words of the prophets.  I convince myself I don’t have time to sit.  Time to ponder.  Time to pray.  The truth is I don’t want to pause.  These stories…these stories somehow are also mine.  Stories that remind me I am part of the fabric of a tale much larger than the small moments I see.  Stories that remind me the flying has less to do with the flap of my own wings and more to do with knowledge and trust of wind and sky and community.  Stories that remind me I am connected to the thousands of stories ever told.  

I’ve spent four years flapping in the breeze and on this Monday, I pause to read.  To savor the words of other stories.  

There’s something in the sitting.  The savoring.  The stillness.  And I know that through this loss of womb, words will be born from barrenness.  Words and sacred story.