(Re-posting: Another busy week. It’s funny how, a year later, I am struggling with this thought again. God is gracious.)

I kick the rock again and again, loosening the earth’s grip from around its jagged edges. The ground is crusty and the moisture is buried deep beneath the sprouted corn. It doesn’t take long for the earth to dry. It’s just like she said; her soul is parched. I’m bending over day after mind-dulling day, picking up stones out of the field. There’s no joy in a thirsty soul.

Why do we live waiting for God to send the downpours when the gentle sprinkling is best? We walk with Jesus silently and we never talk and suddenly we’re wondering if he is with us at all. The talking isn’t reserved for quiet mornings. The talking is moment by moment, stone by stone, nail by nail. I get dirt in my rubber boot and I slowly count out words for the promise I found in Psalms. Like I’m saying it back to Him. Contentment seeps in and quenches my quiet sighs.