When we see the Maker’s hands.

Let’s just be honest. 80% of weather isn’t good enough.


& it’s funny, because we’re always looking for tomorrow. Or the next day. Or Thursday when the weather’s supposed to be a high of 75 (Ohioans, dream on). When it’s summer it’s that first hint of fall, those first crisp mornings & that first pumpkin latte. When it’s autumn, it’s that first snowfall, each flake defined in such beauty. When it’s winter it’s those Indian summers. When it’s spring, it’s those chirping birds & sunny, coat-free days. 


It’s always (1) what we don’t have that we’re longing for, or (2) the first few days of that new time feeling. Then, week two comes, & it’s suddenly not so fun, & we can’t wait for half the year to run on by so we can race to a different season. 


Eventually, the heat gets too hot, the rain gets too cold, the snow smothers all living hope, & your pumpkin spice latte burns your tongue. Eventually, we always come back to this ain’t no good thing.


& all this talk to bring you to this. We wish everything away. & have you ever noticed every season is too long? We want quicker. We want now. We don’t want the meteorologist in a room with fancy screens. No, the little misguided man. We want him outside, screwing things in, replacing leaking that, hammering down that loose board. We want Mr. Fix-It. & heavens, none of his weather predicting chats are going to do.


It’s scary, really. Because this is where my mind is. A month of silence, & you’re all this is really what your mind has been doing? But it’s truth, & it’s simple, & sometimes that’s the combination of the divine. 


He’s been speaking to me through it, you know. 


The whole part where it’s windy & flowers are trying to press forth & the sun is trying to dance around the clouds. 


They’re praising me,  he whispers.


& I hear him, & I’m beginning to think that’s all creation is telling us. Maybe the seasons are shouting the lesson we have yet to learn. This is a process, child. Slow down.


Because we’re feisty, kicking our legs & pushing down the day to get through each season. To get to warmer days. To get to graduation. To get to our wedding day. Meanwhile, creation pays no minds to our impatient tapping of our watch, all too focused on doing all the Maker created it to do.


For since the creation of the world God’s invisible qualities- his eternal powers & divine nature- have been clearly seen, being understood from what has been made, so that people are without excuse.

For although they knew God, they neither glorified him as God nor gave thanks to him, but their thinking became futike & their foolish hearts darkened.

 (Romans 1:20-21)


This was my reading the other day, & it brought me to my knees, because I get it now, Lord. I see.


Because ‘for although they knew God’.


It floored me. 


The thing is, I’ve always paid attention to verse 20, but verse 21 just fell in the aftermath along with every other verse in the chapter to me. 



But no, because it says, “For although they knew God…”


There’s more.


“For although they knew God…” & thats what we oftentimes forget. That’s what slips between the seams, lost between sofa cushions. When we go back to verse 20 & we reread it & soak it in & write it on the palms of our hands, we get it. Because creation knows what’s up, Lord. They’re crying out to you, worshipping you day & night, adhering to their most natural state, their sole purpose. 


Its us that stray. We are the wanderers.


A tree never forgets its a tree, never relents its long arms reaching for its Maker to grab itself a margarita. The sun never forgets its the sun & decides to cool off in the chill of night & sleep in late.


We, love. We are the forgetful.


Our eyes see & our hearts turn away. Every single person sees the Maker’s hands. Whether they chose to worship him as the God he is, that’s their choice. Worship is an outward display of an inward love, overcome by adoration, & that love, child, it’s always a choice. So the question isn’t can they see him, or are they seeing what I see. The question is what we choose to do with the Maker’s hands.


So that’s where we’ll rest our heads, love. What are you choosing? Are you sleeping through today, watching the clock, counting the hours until tomorrow? Or are you choosing to see the Maker’s hands for what they are, worshipping the King of all creation & the one whose numbered your days?

It’s your turn, love. Break the silence. Spill your guts.

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