Pausing For A Moment
June has swung into view, and it brings us into summer which has a little pressure with it. The pressure is to do something, to enjoy the warmer weather, perhaps even to be more social since it’s “nice outside.” And as someone who spent a decade living in places where sunshine was not as plentiful, I fully understand that urge.
But I ran across a few things this week that emphasized being present in the moments given to us instead of moving quickly through them and on to the next thing. I’ve given you one in its entirety just below – a Blessing for a Gentle Summer by Kate Bowler – because I think we can all use this kind of blessing these days.
This gentleness and presence are exactly what God calls us to – regardless of season, weather, or circumstance. Where are you right now? What is there for you to do, right where you are? How can you tune in to the goodness or ache that exists there? Sometimes – perhaps most times – there is nothing to do even as much as we want to do something, anything. What is asked of us is being more than doing.
When we are still enough, we may see all manner of things that might have been missed while we were busy doing. We may see the flash of hurt in a friend’s eyes and offer him the gift of our silence to either collect himself or share. We may notice the beauty of one person caring for another. We may even be lucky enough to see God’s handiwork in the sunsets or sprouting of a seed.
When we are still for a moment, we can not only notice God, but we can also know God just as the scriptures tell us in Psalm 46:10 – “Be still and know that I am God.” The gift of that knowing is one of love, both the giving and receiving of it, and I am not sure that there is a better gift than God’s love for you.
May we take the moments we are given and pause to be present in them so we might glimpse and know the Divine.
A Blessing for a Gentle Summer
- Kate Bowler
For the long days that arrive without asking much of you,
may you let them be what they are—
not a project, not a reinvention,
just time that opens and holds.
For the pressure to make it count,
to travel farther, gather more, become better,
may you set it down somewhere out of reach
and keep what is simple.
For the small, passing pleasure—
light through a window, something growing, a shared meal—
may you notice them
without needing to improve them,
or turn them into anything more.
And when the season slips by, as it will,
may you not measure it by what you accomplished,
but by the moments you were present enough
to feel that this, too, is part of your life.
