This sea moves, moving me too.
I string laundry and listen to her waves, arrange peonies in crackled masons at the sink and watch her ripples, weed rows of sweet corn and touch her lapping shores.
It shimmers green. And sweeps me away, an ocean of wheat cresting.
Come every morning, we come to her, us with our bowls of granola, to picnic table and sit here, listening to fields rush with her running.
"I see the wind." I turn to him, his face warm in beginning light.
We watch wind wave through blades of green, a bending, curving stream of blue-grey, winding up emerald hills, snaking down.
"Wind rivers."
Through heads of wheat, whispering leaves, a horizon of stalks, the wind takes her course. I'm mesmerized. In these fields, she's unveiled her way.
What is invisible is seen. What is a mystery is made known. The leaves of the trees only expose her for a moment. But through this kingdom of wheat stalks, this together body, the wind is witnessed.
And I begin the day considering how the way of the Spirit can be seen by how Kingdom people move. Only how Kingdom people move. Together.
And wondering how the Spirit might be manifested in me this day, beside these people here.
I carry my empty bowl into the house, the wind on my face.
Lord, no one sees the wind. But I see its current through the green. No one sees the Spirit. But how He courses through Your people. Move me. And may I only move in You.
Photos: the sea of wheat around our island home...
