I taste a wine not pressed from grapes.
This morning, while foraging for breakfast under the pecan trees out front and thanking the Lord for sending this slow, soaking rain to break the drought, my peripatetic mind wandered through a few random quotes on idleness, solitude, and prayer which I have etched into my vade mecum and my mind. It all began with an adumbral image of God devoting a year to make each of these pecans I’m now savoring. If he thinks it fit to make the extravagant investment of a year in something as transient as a pecan perhaps we should be more intentional toward the slow work of maturing our eternal souls.
It is the silent, empty, and apparently ‘useless’ element in the life of prayer which makes it truly a life.