“He says, ‘Be still and know that I am God.’” (Psalm 46:10 NIV)
Stacked-up stress. It’s what I feel today. I pull my keys from the cluttered kitchen counter and wonder, for the millionth time, why I thought an eight o’clock-Monday-morning piano lesson was a good idea.
Gabriel, my musician of the morning, is late. I sit in the van, letting it warm, tapping on the horn, waiting for my small, blond boy to emerge from the porch. Eventually he does, hair wet from the shower, music books tucked under his arms. His shoes are untied, and I grimace as his laces drag through an inch of messy, gray January slush.
It’s how I feel today.
Messy-gray. Without a sliver of blue sky slipping through.
It’s just how life is, sometimes, I decide a few minutes later when we’re sitting in the piano teacher’s studio. Usually listening to Gabe’s musical progress brings me joy–the primary plink-plink-plink breaking from a beginner cocoon to something beautiful, developed, and artfully formed. But today it isn’t enough.
I have worries. Concerns. Genuine, gut-level, woes of the soul.
Gabriel finishes his lesson, receives his assignment for the next week, and he and I return to the van. We drive through the murky morning. I notice the lack of color. I feel the weight of the clouds. We drive down the hill and turn onto the road we live on.
And it’s then that I notice the Mississippi.
It’s glassy. Still. Mirror-surface smooth.
Oh, Lord, it’s how I long for my soul to be.
I move along, aware that my fingers curl hard around the wheel, and I know, suddenly, that I need to detour. I need to abandon the wild rush of the morning, the stack-up of tasks, for just a few minutes. Something better is calling. It’s like a magnet. I have to obey.
“Gabriel, I’d like to sit by the river. For just a sec. Want to come with? Or should I drop you by home?”
“I’d like to go,” he says from the back seat.
I turn toward the river and a moment later I pull against the curb. Gabriel and I leave the van and walk, crunching our way over ice-encrusted snow. There’s a bench, by the river bank, and we take our seat.
Gabriel is quiet. Something in his spirit knows I need this time. He sits and looks over the water. I watch the river, too, entranced by its moods.
Sometimes the river is rough. Agitated. Like ruffled feathers or the hackles of a dog.
But today it’s wide-open peaceful. It offers a perfect, unmarred reflection of whatever rests along the banks.
Oh, Lord, I want to be like this.
It occurs to me, sitting here, that this is what the Lord wants for me, too. He longs for me to be still. Secure in His presence. Peaceful and calm and free.
So I sit. And I pray. And as I do, I release my worries–one by one–to the care of the Lord.
My fists uncurl.
I breathe easy.
I let go.
I come free.
Gabriel and I sit for a few minutes. There’s a chill to the air, and my sweet, small son moves close. He takes my open hand, turns it over, and places his own hand on my palm.
Then his warm little fingers wrap around mine.
Soon we’ll head home. Toward our day. Together.
But I’m different now.
Peace is flowing. Gentle and smooth.
I’m like the water appears to be.
I am, for now, still.
