Strange Week in the Neighborhood

One of the tiny promises I made myself in January (notice I did not call them resolutions; I really, truly, know better.) was to post here with more regularity.  Last month I made some progress, but then February hit.

The month of *meh*.

February is notoriously difficult for every teacher.  Second semester has started, there's still tons to accomplish before spring fever hits, and one really just wants to go back to bed every morning.  

We're slogging.

Then there are weeks like this one.

Last Wednesday we were in the hall for over an hour under a very real tornado warning.

By Saturday it was snowing.

Tuesday it rained.

Today is bright, beautiful, and mild.

This schizophrenic weather mirrors my zig-zagging emotions and energy.

I sense changes on the horizon.  

I'm not sure what I think of them--if I even really knew what they were.

In this, God seems silent.

Not inactive.  Just quiet.

Somewhere recently I read a John Piper quote that went something like this:  At any given time, God may be doing 10,000 things in your life, and you might be aware of three of them.

One I saw this morning, in an opal crescent moon suspended perfectly in the upper-left pane of my bedroom window, designed to be my first sight of today.

One I saw this afternoon, when a colleague asked me to pray for a student before what promises to be a tense meeting.  

I felt His tender Father touch.

I heard Him call me to step forward and be the church.

Once I did a study on the word, "abide". 

 Basically, it means "actively resting".

It's actively waiting and responding wholeheartedly, not drifting passively or fidgeting in fear.   

In this season, I want to abide, to be "all in" in the waiting, resting because I need Him more than I need to understand everything. 

Even in the strangest times.

Be blessed,

Ginger