Summoned to Be

In January of 2011 I began writing, under pressing inspiration, early every morning, for months. When the inspiration stopped, the writing stopped, because I don’t have the heart to fight to write. If it flows, I love it; if it isn’t flowing, it’s just awful and pedantic and clunky and I throw it away. I haven’t found the flow much since 2011. I’ve tried to live the lessons I learned during the writing, but I haven’t had more to write.

In those intense times, while the words were pouring out onto the page so freely, a little wren sometimes sang on my porch rail, just outside the window of my writing space. I mentioned him in the book that resulted from that work, From Fortress to Freedom. This morning, at a different house, with different furniture, different trees, different windows, different sunlight, where I’m getting used to living differently after nearly 20 years in my previous house, a little wren came to sing on my new porch rail.

I decided to take his song as a summons. Below are the words that came today, as I mused and meditated and listened to wrens and their Creator.



Following the trail of breadcrumbs, here I am. It’s been six years now since I stepped foot back in this Garden. This morning, as I tried to grab for a little more sleep, a little more blanket, a little more blankness and respite from a world I hardly recognize, the wren’s song called me back to hope.

I’d lost it for a moment, a month, a memory, lost my mind’s hold on what my body can never forget. We carry it all, the pain, the injury, the healing, the light. Our hands, made for worship, uplifted, are filled, and they do not forget the holding. But our minds, those like mine, gambol lightly from one hand to another to another’s, curious and eager to know and to see and to understand. Not the hands. They know.

His hands formed ours. Perhaps the knowledge begins there. He knit us together, the eternal continuous strand of His life woven in loops and whorls, stitched onto and into and through all of our being: His fingerprints our imprint. The first face we saw, the first hand we held, was His, and we imprinted on His presence before we could think to follow; we knew before reason that near Him we wanted to be.

I want to be. Doing is tiring, is losing, is ending. To be. To focus. To walk. To praise. Martha the participle, Mary the infinitive: I choose Mary. I have been too busy doing too many things, and it is time again to rest at the feet of Eternity, to breathe the life of Infinity, to rejoice in who I am in Him.

I’m glad I left breadcrumbs, words, notes about my time in the Garden. Perhaps the breadcrumbs attracted the wren who sang on my porch rail this morning. I’m glad he left a few crumbs for me, coming famished to the Master’s table, to be filled.