Sylvancreature

 

I want to write something meaningful.  I want to write something worth reading.

 

I want to write something real.  I want to share what I’m learning, only what am I learning?

 

 

 

And so I type something – and before I get to far I begin to see what I really want is you to think well of me, I want to sound deep, and well read. But without sounding like I’m trying to impress. 

Like a journal you leave about - hoping that someone will read it.

 

At times I am the man who reads a just so he can book so he can quote it later, vs the man who reads a book and is moved by the content therein.

A sentence, a phrase moves him.  He reads, and rereads.  He thinks.  He examines his life and his choices.

 

 

I remember being that man.  The man who read and was moved. 

 

 

That man is so busy.

 

 

 

 

 

And that saddens him.  Beauty not observed is beauty unknown. 

 

To see a sunrise, eat a breakfast, listen to a song, do my chores, to smell the hay – and to miss the beauty in them. 

 

But then I come home – I come home and kick my sodden shoes into a corner.  I pour a bowl of corn chex and and listen.

 

I listen to Jaymay, Palomar, Wayne Grudem, Sea Wolf, Working Poor, and Kris Gruen. 

 

And I fold my laundry, and I write – and I erase, and I think.  And I hear that music – not the music that is playing, but the echoes of a greater and grander song, the echoes mixing with a growing, groaning chorus. 

 

And all is good.  All is hard.  All is grace.