The day dawned misty and the route I drove to work took on an unfamiliar look, as houses and trees, wrapped in a cotton ball fog, combined with mud splashed snow to create a creamy mocha, soft focus, sepia photograph day.
I was driving "relaxed," as per Frances's police officer's instructions (for those who aren't regular readers, see Three Fast Friends on March 8th).
Taking the ramp off the highway, I waited for the red light to change to green and admired a stand of trees across the road, serene and beautiful in their utter stillness; bare, soft taupe branches graceful, against the soft backdrop of the day.
And I thought to myself, "I wish I could be like a tree; standing so still," and I thought of the man in Psalm 1 who is like a tree planted by streams of water; with roots going down deep so that its leaf doesn't wither.
A tree is a beautiful picture of rest, drawing nourishment and bearing fruit.
And the trees sang to my soul a song it needed to hear, for I have nothing to say but what he tells me, and I only hear him when I'm still long enough to listen, waiting like a little sparrow, for crumbs to fall from heaven.
Later as I drove back to my office, I was reading the signs of the businesses in the neighbourhood, and saw a lawyer's shingle with the business name, Sorley and Still.
"Still"--even the word sounds peaceful. I want to be still.
Psalm 1:3 (New International Version)
3 He is like a tree planted by streams of water,
which yields its fruit in season
and whose leaf does not wither.
Whatever he does prospers.