Changing Landscapes

For your steadfast love is before me, and I walk

in your faithfulness.  - Psalm 26:3

I started this blog March of 2020. We all know the chaos that ensued that month, and for months to follow, compounded for me personally by two difficult losses in my family.

My writings came as a way to pass the time, and it was something I had been wanting to do for a long while. I used it also as a way to work through grief, becoming a network of support when I was at my lowest. What God did with those amateur thoughts touched me to my very soul and sutured deep wounds I thought could never be healed. Sharing my blogs became a blessing indeed.

More recently though, the obvious ways God was speaking to me at that time began to dissipate. My connection with the awe-inspiring scenery of His great works seemed to loosen, and I wasn’t recognizing any longer the simple signs of His wonder and peace – especially since my move to Texas. 

Before the move, I could sit upstairs in my bedroom at a desk in the corner right next to a window. I could look out across the prairie and see the majestic Rocky Mountains, their snow-tipped edges drawing lines against blue sky, reflecting the early morning light from the sunrise just behind me. It was beautiful and reminded me constantly of the goodness of our God.

Where we live now in a neighborhood on flat terrain with few trees is just a little bit different. Not to say Texas sunrises and sunsets do not hold their own kind of beauty. They certainly do, and I wouldn’t want to knock the grandeur of God’s work in a place like this at all, for I know He created all things beautiful. But I’ve got to say, growing up in Colorado has left me spoiled.

Perhaps the let down in differing landscapes is what has me scrambling for words. Or perhaps it’s the pain of unwanted transition – something I’ve become very familiar with these past few years. Whatever the cause, I’ve been at a loss for words for a while now, and so very sad in the struggle.

I began to pray over this. And just a couple days ago as I was pulling my car through the front gate at the farm, I whispered a prayer, and began asking God to shine light on this lost venture. I pleaded that He show me my purpose. I asked that He remind me of His plan for my life, and I asked Him to rekindle the vibrant spirit of His nature as I once used to see in colorful songbirds, deep sunsets, and fresh snowfalls. At that moment, against the burnt browns of the scorched earth and the dull gray sky, a cardinal flew out in front of me. The bright red of its feathers screamed loudly against the glum background - and it seemed to float for a moment just a few feet from my windshield. I gasped. Stomping hard on my brake pedal, I stopped the car and sat staring for a moment, watching it’s wings flap rapidly, it’s head turning quickly left to right, then right to left. Once, I’m sure it looked right at me. 

As it flew away, I closed my eyes and shifted my prayer to one of gratitude - exactly what I should have been doing to begin with. 

Y’all, God never gives up on us.

I realized at this moment that God’s intimacy is absolutely divine, and it weaves in and out of our lives in perfect harmony. A strong notion of comfort is what I needed in my time of deep grief. Now, in these days that flow a bit easier, God’s workings in my life are different. Instead of a season of healing, I’m in a season of growing. Instead of being carried, God has set me down to stand on my own two feet for a while. And even though He’s chosen to walk beside me for now, He hasn’t left my side and He never will - and a little red bird is all I needed to remind me.

So, if you’re feeling alone, drifting through a season of silence, be encouraged God is still with you. Remember His words and the promises He’s kept for centuries before you. Rest in the assurance of His guidance, knowing He’s working in you and around you in prosperous ways you hardly recognize. 

I am with you always, even to the end of the age. – Matthew 28:20

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