What matters

when it feels like nothing matters

Over the weekend, I had the opportunity to hike with my kids and watch them build a fort like my brother and I used to do. The autumn light was otherworldly.

If heaven was a season, it would be autumn.

The world is on fire with color.

Death, decay, brings vibrancy and more light.

Sun’s rays reflecting off of the yellows and oranges and reds.

Our eyes blink from the luminescence.

If you look directly at autumn, you will see echoes behind your eyelids: yellow, tear-drop reminders.

My kids touch sap, covet acorn shells, turn over stones.

It makes me fall in love with them—and with creation—again and again.

I help them find small saplings that have fallen on the ridge and I haul them to the scrappy lean-to. The smell of bark is like burn cinnamon.

My son takes one of his arsenal of plastic swords and shreds bark off of an old stump. I think about generations of little boys with toy swords wanting to conquer things.

My daughter helps me gather wood for the walls and then gets bored and wanders off to explore. She’s growing up. She finds an ant village hiding under a stone and then carefully replaces the rock roof like I would and says, “let’s be kind, they’ve worked really hard on their house.”

We travel down the hill together. They lead the way.

“Where are we going?” I ask.

“Follow us,” they say.

As I travel down the ravine behind them, watching their little legs carry them over the stones and fallen leaves, my mind dwells on the holy. These are the moments that make living and recovery worth every second.

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What does dwelling mean to you?

I don’t mean dwelling as in obsessive thinking (you know, that kind of stinkin’ thinkin’ folks in recovery know a thing or two about – I’m speaking from experience here).

I mean dwelling as in resting.

Waiting.

With open hands.

Bowed head.

Or like an autumn leaf that two-steps its way to the ground.

Dancing.

Abiding.

I just finished Faith Eury Cho’s new book, Experiencing Friendship with God and I have been moved to refocus. I’ve been reminded that it’s okay to take a breath and pause.

It’s okay to dwell.

As Faith Eury Cho says in her book:

“To dance with mystery, we need a childlike trust.”

Over the past couple weeks since reading an early copy of her new book (I LOVE LAUNCH TEAMS!) I’m reminded again to go back to dwelling in that place of wonder. Like my children on a Sunday autumn afternoon. Taking time to examine the world around us, soaking it in, resting in what really matters.

Time.

It is a beautiful thing to enjoy friendship with God. To sit in silence or sip a latte or kick a pile of leaves on a dirt path and need to be nowhere anytime soon.

What matters when it seems like nothing matters? When it seems like life is too rough to be good? Too full of sorrow and heartache and loss? Or too busy? Or too gut-wrenching when we turn on the news?

Cultivating a friendship with God matters.

Showing up in stillness matters.

Without an agenda.

Without a deadline.

Empty.

Present.

Free.

Will you join me in practicing presence in a new way this fall and upcoming holiday season? I’ve got a freebie coming soon that just might guide you through this and I’ll be sharing about it right here first.

Stay tuned.

In the meantime, my hope for you is that you can take a moment to pause today. To dwell in the presence.

PS. Did you hear that I’ve got another book coming out with Lake Drive Books? If you’d like to be a part of my journey to publish my next book or are curious about the process of writing and publishing, shoot me a message. I’m cultivating a list of my closest friends to join me.

Lake Drive Books Welcomes Recovery Expert Caroline Beidler