Little things

 Finally, beloved, whatever is true, whatever is honorable, whatever is just, whatever is pure, whatever is pleasing, whatever is commendable, if there is any excellence and if there is anything worthy of praise, think about these things. (Philippians 4:8)

Who knows when the hidden soul will speak, telling you ... lest you forget ... that the deepest part of you is not under your control? Insignificant moments awaken the heart to immense love and beauty in the world ... and in ourselves.

I pull a light gray t-shirt over my head, fresh from the drawer, clean, still fragrant from the wash, fitting my frame but not tightly. Gratitude fills me whole as it embraces my flesh. Such a little thing, yet it stirs love and gratitude for the grace of being alive, able to feel common cotton running down my chest and across my back.

There is no good reason for such surplus of feeling. But today something within notices ... and blesses me with unexpected joy.

And it is not just that. There are other little things, like the aroma of coffee as I sit in the rocker by the window, morning sun streaming through as I look left at the vase of red carnations on the hearth. Mere buds days ago, now they unfold their promise, each in its own time, delighting my eye with the color of beauty amid winter’s monochrome.

Nearby, a sheaf of dried wheat lies on the hearth. Deep red winterberries left over from Christmas adorn the stalks, each stalk headed with grain, kernels of life—no, Life—gracious bounty springing from the earth. They bear my heart to Nebraska days when I’d stop the car on country roads and survey great fields of grain, waves of life undulating in the wind, thankful for every stalk and every hope-filled heart who planted the seeds, wondering, too, why I should be graced to see such beauty.

Three candles stand guard a-front the hearth, a tall center candle closely flanked by two shorter ones of equal height. Together, they form a tiny cathedral, a trinity, framing a small stone angel. Her eyes cast down in contemplation, she invites the same of any who might sit near and bend low to see the words inscribed on the stone base where she sits, “Find peace.”

There is no need to go looking. It is right here. In little things. That aren’t so little at all.

Listen.

David L. Miller