This Gospel Resting Place.

It's morning, Lord. It's early. And it's quiet.

The sun is still on it's way up, the city is on it's way to work, and I'm on my way to the french press for a refill. My girls are all still asleep, except those who are still up and those who work the early shift.

The violin that sang outside my window last night has stopped. Replacing it are sirens and car horns and the occasional cursing of a homeless stranger.

The air smells of fall. The leaves have changes and have begun their descent. Each master piece twists and turns in its own time and collides with the pavement to be trampled underfoot by those too busy to notice seasons.

And then there's You. Here. Now. Between these pages of my journal and of Your Holy Writ. On this couch. In my being. Here.

You are my place called "home". You are my resting place. When my eyes long to close again and my head reaches for the pillow when my alarm goes off, my spirit knows better. Here. Here is where I rest.
Keep me in this Gospel resting place no matter where my feet may roam today. Preach the Gospel to this sore heart again this morning. And again. And again.

I love You, my Yellow Bird.