I got to run this morning….fueled by 7.5 of sleep makes for quicker miles and clearer thoughts.  For me, running usually results in a blog, scribbled notes smeared with drips of sweat, the missing sentence, and prayer all tangled in with the mess of stringed words.  But running is always worship, even the words that may make for a good blog or article find themselves bowing to the One who intricately designed that which would birth forth anything at all worth a lick of reading. I can’t write unless I first see, or smell, or hear or touch something of this holy creation. Like when I ran down into the meadow and felt it’s hot breath of passing summer surround me and I thought it about time for the crickets to put away their bows and silence their chirps. Or how orange and black fuzz wraps itself up in a season and dusty wings fly a days worth of living.  If you can’t see God in this, what’s the point?

I prayed for those who have lost hard. Cuz loss runs wild over a soul….. uncatchable….until it hitches up against the blind and with one hard yank rips the scales off…and swollen red eyes see Holy. He floods in, in a collision of Grace and mad exhales and shows us the way to live both lonely and full, cuz He makes a home for the lonely (psalm 68).

I run past a young mama, with a fresh babe at her breast. I inhale the newness and young of it all. God makes babies. God gives tired mamas sweet, fresh skin to run tender fingers along as if discovering a soul treasure swaddled in skin…..and milky breath to breathe in as tears run past a smile wrapped around this life. This. Now. Life. Where God is. Everywhere.

I keep running and listen to ghosts of days breathe through trees, and the bow creaks in the sway. And this too, calls for my soul to stand to attention in worship,as the first leaves dance about in a swirl.

I pray and ask that my verses be addressed to and for the King. I want what’s glorious inside to find a trail out the tips of fingers and relish the run in phrases and descriptions that reflect our ever creating God. The run, the meadow, the prayer, the mama and babe, the ghosts…..I’ve caught them on a page and I will remember them.

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