Taking the Slow Way Home

Things happen fast. Here in southern Saskatchewan, we went from winter to summer in the about two weeks. On Friday, my granddaughter and I went to Regina for a bit of retail therapy and when we returned a lilac bush next to the driveway was displaying the first green of leaves. In the backyard, other trees I’ve yet to determine the species of were also budding and greening.

A few years ago, wanting to enjoy and extend the brief season of lilacs blooming, I capturing the progress in photos from the first early bud. I enjoyed that lilac season like none other because I paid attention. I envision this, our first year in Moose Jaw, unfolding something like that lilac project as we patiently watch green things come up in the yard, see farmers moving in their fields after the long winter, and watch the progress of our backyard garden and fields of canola, pulses, and other grains. Much to see and learn and praise the Creator for.

And still, I fight the temptation to look down, become distracted, focus forward instead of being present. The other day, on our drive home from Caronport, my granddaughter told me she set an intention when she woke up to be present. She felt that talk at school about their upcoming Grade 8 graduation plans foiled her resolution. We do the best we can, I told her. And always, we begin again.

Now, early on Sunday morning as I ponder hits and misses from the past week I might feel discouraged by personal intentions that didn’t unfold as I had hoped. Prayers I didn’t pray. Grace I didn’t extend. Impatience. Self-centeredness. A myriad of things I missed the mark on. Forgive me.

We do the best we can, I am reminded. We fall. And fail. Acknowledge our shortcoming. Find forgiveness. And grace washes us as we get back up on our feet and begin again. And again. And again. Soon, I will gather with a body of Christ’s ones in a little church that’s over a century old and pray the same prayers and read the same scriptures sojourners have prayed and read for centuries.

Here, in Saskatchewan, the wide open big sky prairie reminds of the omniscience of my God. The consistency of lilacs budding, blooming, and fading assures me that there is a season for everything—and seasons change. The nave of a little church that’s been awash with prayers since long before my parents were born, where worship and grace permeates the creaky wooden floors and pews, grounds me in grace. In a world where things happen fast and change occurs overnight, I find peace in these things.