Another winter arrives, bringing the cold front with it.
The joy of sun on my face is replaced with the sharp, upward thrust of pain, of memories of loss.
The cold front of apathy, of anger, settles over me like snow on undisturbed ground.
In the midst of this, there is Thanksgiving. Tonight, my house will be full, the table will be overflowing, and
“The dinner party is a true proclamation of the abundance of being – a rebuke to the thrifty little idolatries by which we lose sight of the lavish hand that made us.”
[Robert Farrar Capon]
I believe in a great big God – one who is so far beyond my understanding. I will never understand November. There are unanswered questions, persistent doubts. But there is also this: a God who is weaving a future I can’t even imagine.
“I want to cultivate a deep sense of gratitude, of groundedness, of enough, even while I’m longing for something more. The longing and the gratitude, both. I’m practicing believing that God knows more than I know, that he sees what I can’t, that he’s weaving a future I can’t even imagine from where I sit this morning.”