I live in a place that doesn’t shout. It’s quiet enough that when the geese arrow home from southern refuge, their honking punctuates the howls from my dog scaring up squirrels…and not much else.
But I love these geese, the sounds of their travel, their traffic, their rotation. For a couple of days they land in the field beside my house, having a pow-wow. My door faces that field so I have to shimmy out lest I disturb them and send them soaring in alarm, causing them to resettle. I only want to stand nearby and listen to the great rattle and trill.
Yet, in spite of my care, soon comes the inevitable rise up, the blinding flash of thousands of wings, and out of the chaos, the formation, and the grand carrying on.
I used to be that missional.
When it was my time to lead the arrow of fellow fliers, did I do a damn good job of pumping my wings?
I think I gave it everything.
But when it was time to fall back…oh that was much harder.
I want to believe I did that with grace.
And if I didn’t…Lord help me to be better.
As I prepare to rise again.