Moments.

There are moments on those gray afternoons when clouds seem to fight just to contain themselves and my one small piece of creation seems filled with tension. Moments before the rain falls when you can still leave the door open and hear sounds of far-off wind chimes and rustling leaves through the screen. Deep within that place and those moments, I can hear the whispers of ideas that I want to tell to the world. Whispers of wonderful thoughts, creatively and musically spun together so that if I were to just listen a little more carefully, it might change who I am on the outside.

But soon the tension eases and the rain stops and the clouds gather themselves up again. And the trees and wind chimes are still and I’m distracted by other sounds. Sounds that turn my head ever so slightly until I’ve all but lost those soft, soul-murmurs and I’m left with the fleeting sensation that I brushed up against something important.

And so these are moments I’m searching for. These missing moments, which, though brief, are like melodies you can’t get out of your head or the taste you can’t quite name which lies so ironically on the tip of your tongue. Or maybe a face in a crowd that looks just like someone you’re so sure you should know. Or have known and maybe don’t know anymore. And isn’t it sad that you just can’t quite remember.

These are my missing moments.

Some are gentle and peaceful, bright white like the color of dandelion seeds after they’ve turned all fluffy and soft. A moment like this seems to linger and settle and fill my mind with such peace that all the sounds in the world around me seem to melt together. As if they had all been made by God or by man for that one moment alone.

Others are like memories, dark yellow and deep like the walls of my mother’s kitchen, inspired by paintings of Tuscan sunsets and Spanish pottery. Colored by ancient brushstrokes along the surfaces in swirling, wandering patterns of age.

You should know that if you see them—my moments—you may mistake them for things quite ordinary. Perhaps that’s why so often they stay just out of reach, away from my sharply cynical and critical world. My moments are wise and crafty and they know me well.

So today I type with my eyes closed and the door open. And I work at letting go. Peeling away the fear and rejection so that my moments will know me when they see me, recognize me as the one they belong with. Because there are moments—faithful, Spirit-brushing moments that are meant just for each of us.

They fill the spaces, the cracks within us in such a way that no room is left for doubt. There is a truth that lies in the center of our moments, glimpses of a creator-God who has weaved us and wrapped us around those Spirit-pieces. Of a father-God who smells of earth and rain. Who has given us life in such a way that we are not just of Him, but also within Him. Of a mother-God who has brushed the insides of our souls with a color uniquely our own.

We have stood and stumbled and sprinted in these bodies, and She has held open Her arms. Wrapping tightly with a love both fierce and faithful. Waiting for those moments to rise and be recognized.

So to all my missing moments – I’m sorry. I had forgotten that you aren’t really mine; that you don’t belong to me. And I’m sorry that I am the one who left, but I’m grateful that you have stayed. I may lose you again or misplace you, but I have seen you and heard your truth, and I will keep looking. Be faithful moments; be kind and merciful and forgiving. Be growing moments of greatness so that I am filled with only these moments.

Thank you for my dreams and for my words and for this life. Thank you for graceful whispers of truth and thank you for love. Thank you for this moment and for all my moments.

And now rise up. Let this be, for someone, a new moment. Your moment.