(I am linking this post at Sarah Mae dot com. Though it was written several weeks ago, it is one of the most valuable things I have grown to know as true for me. More and more, I parent best, and partner in marriage best, and serve best and live my best life when my margins are place carefully and thoughtfully. The prayer of my heart is to look to Him to order my days.)
I remember placing the crisp white paper in the typewriter, rolling it through and setting the margins.
First. And then typing away. The words, the story, the black keys striking the paper void of anything. Waiting for the keys to dance along within the pre-set margins. To form a story. To make order of the narrative.
And at the end, rolling the paper through the metal machine and seeing words in black mounds, like a tower, resembling a city skyscraper, neatly stacked reaching up and out, while the white margins hemmed in the story.
The white wide margins, like white noise, creating calm on the page amid a sea of black marks made by the striking keys. White noise margins, buffering. White noise margins calming and hemming in.
Margins creating a place of calm. Where the eyes see peace on the page, where rest for the reader is found. For a moment at the turn. Slowing the pace.
Eyes move left to right, but find a calm tranquil sea of white waiting. White soothing. White cushioning the turn from the end of one line before beginning another.
Rest and respite are found in the cushioning soft places of nothing
The keys stop hammering and the bell rings sweet and soft, as the carriage rings and turns down to the next line of the story.
Recharged and re-energized by a second or two in the margin of the turn. A moment of calm in the ocean of clamoring noise and black chatting keys whipping white paper.
And so too, the margins of my life.
The setting of wide margins where possible, when called, to have space to reflect, rest awhile with Him and listen to the quiet. Listen to the whispers to my soul.
Whispers of His will, His desire for my story, that is my life.
The place where the heart beat slows and life wrestles rushing to the mat. Where the soul is at peace with no agenda, plans, or harried list delineating desired to do’s.
The places where poetry and art find a quiet birthplace. And creativity breathes into the dull and the mundane.
The moments where our soul finds balance and steadies the wobbling worrisome heart.
Seeking a steadying of the soul in the wide margins of His grace. Where we feel anew His mercy because we are quiet and still long enough to feel at all. The margins of our lives where its quiet enough to calm a restless spirit in a moment of renewal. A life-affirming pause.
The found stillness where we are in communion with Him in prayer.
Where the still soothes the soul like a salve to the wounded spirt. And we can catch a whisper in the net of listening and savor the words.
Where quiet reflection births gratitude and a re-connection to the Giver of All Good Gifts. Where Jesus sits and speaks into the intentional moments of white noise calm reflection.
Right before and right after the hammering black keys of life go dancing along their page.
The margins, wide and wonderful, where possible, when created, communion with Him, the birthplace of thought, the place where a thought can both find a beginning and an end. The space where patience is restored and rediscovered.
And the soul finds a brief moment of peace.
And all the senses savor in unison the beauty of His creation.
Counting GIfts with Ann.
* New beginnings, a first day of a last year of the last year.
* The first movies in too many years to count in a theatre with The Patient One, sharing popcorn, a big diet Coke and a lot of laughs. Priceless. A treasure.
* The Patient One walking an elderly woman to her seat in church, grace-filled tender. He strong, she fragile.
*Sitting with a friend in a hot high school gym watching my daughter and her daughter play volleyball, and seeing her sweet spirit on the court, not just the motions of the game.
*Getting bloodwork back from the hospital. The calls to say all tests were negative. And my daughter feeling better. No diagnosis, but no words carrying worry.
*Working with a helpful guidance counselor at the High School. So grateful.
*An encouraging email.
*A trip to the bookstore with the Patient One, just us two. A treasured memory.
*A beautiful comment of encouragement.
*Hope for the school year and a helper.
Linking with Ann at A Holy Experience dot com for Multitudes on Mondays (on a Tuesday)