I love New York City. It is my father’s birthplace. All four of my grandparents found work in Gotham. It is a thrilling metropolis overflowing with fascinating people, important challenges and unparalleled energy. There is one thing, however, that New York is not.
It is not quiet.
At this time of year, as flocks of tourists pass through our beloved home, clogging the sidewalks and lifting our tax base, I find myself longing for moments when “all is calm.”
We’ve got the “all is bright” part covered!
As a teenager, clad in a serious down jacket, I would walk to the edge of our rural Minnesota yard, where a stand of Norway pines met the neighboring farmer’s pasture. There, I would flop on my back in the snow.
It was quiet. Not silent, but quiet. It was quiet enough that you could hear things that you normally cannot hear: the cluck of a roosted pheasant, the creak of a tree trunk, the soft thud of snow dropping from a branch.
I honestly don’t remember what I thought about in those moments, but I do remember knowing that I needed this quiet, contemplative space in my life. Without it, I felt somewhat rudderless. I was going about my tasks, but I couldn’t tell you whether or not the stuff that had me so busy was important.
My prayer for you, and for me too, is that this week you will find time to (metaphorically speaking) throw yourself backwards into the snow, time to think big thoughts, and focus yourself amongst the hustle and the bustle.
Who knows what you’ll hear?
Then, I’ll see you on Sunday, as we pay a visit to the next house on our Christmas tour of homes. This week, we are stopping by Matthew’s abode, and (in a hint of what’s to come) I’ve got to tell you that there are A LOT of cars parked in his driveway.
See you in worship,