This is one of those mornings I wish I could hold onto. It’s quiet and cold and foggy outside, but the Story Shack is toasty warm. Before the overcast sky brightened up enough to show the neighborhood, I could see Christmas lights twinkling from the house across the street but not much else. Windchimes hanging from a metal peacock on the Story Shack porch are still. For a few minutes, Cheeto stared out a long window, studying the movements of a bird in the azalea bushes, but he was too lazy and warm to even paw at the door—his signal for me to open it—let alone give chase. He quickly returned to his nap chair. Dave slept soundly through it all.
A lull in the action—that’s what we’re enjoying this morning. And I do love a good lull. Last weekend was crazy busy, and I got almost no sleep. This weekend, I stayed home, intending to chill, but that only made me acutely aware of the disaster area our guest room has become, so I finally tackled it, which took most of the afternoon. I fell asleep early, as usual, and when morning rolled around, I decided to just be still for a little while. (Cheeto has absolutely no problem being still for a while, “a while” meaning most of the day.)
I never thought about it before, but some of my favorite Christmas songs have an element of stillness to them—“In the Bleak Midwinter,” “O Holy Night,” “Silent Night” . . . Something world-changing—soul-changing—had happened that night, but for a moment, there was a pause—a lull after one long journey ended and another was just about to begin.
A prayer this morning for moments of stillness and reflection, for quiet, foggy mornings when the warmth inside keeps the cold world at bay, and we feel truly thankful for the sanctuary we often take for granted.
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