I've known a little about "the grass of the field." I stood in Grandpa's hay field with my dad and watched the yellow butterflies dance and the dark green alfalfa bow in the path of the wind. Once, I helped my aunt yank square bales from the baler onto the hay rack. I was city-girl clumsy, a bit unsteady, trying to find my "sea legs" as the flat board platform shifted over uneven ground. The hook I sunk in the bales before pulling them onto the rack seemed scary and satisfying--like a tool for catching sharks--and the sunlight seemed sweetened by dried bits of plant dust. Our straw hat silhouettes glided over the shorn field to the tune of a solitary tractor.
"As for man, his days are like grass; he flourishes like a flower of the field; for the wind passes over it, and it is gone, and its place knows it no more," says Psalm 103:15-16 (ESV). I seem to hear the wind in the grass when I read those verses--such a quiet, haunting sound. Nothing sets a soul aware of its tiny distinctness like wind in grass. Alone with the wind, I am pared down--a single soul-sprout in a large world, infinitesimal in the scheme of things, yet, somehow, of special value. Listening to the wind accompaniment to the verses, I feel an odd sensation of peace. Perhaps it is that I have become so engrossed in my troubles that the reminder of their fleeting nature--even of the fleeting nature of my life--is a relief. Like taking a walk in the city park, or pausing in the country to draw a deep breath from miles of open air, the verses remind me that my story is not all (or most) of existence. But the wind would be only sad and cold without the next portion of the psalm. "But the steadfast love of the Lord is from everlasting to everlasting on those who fear him, and his righteousness to children's children, to those who keep his covenant and remember to do his commandments" (v.17).
I can no longer walk with my dad; he died when I was 19. For the past number of years, my aunt has poured herself into serving my grandma, now in advanced stages of dementia and failing health. We feel the wind, but we live in the Lord's steadfast love--though we may sense its presence as little as the miles of air pressing over us everyday. We are confident in that love because of a New Covenant bought by our Brother, who remembered the commandments perfectly. We are brief and precious as a roadside flower. And yet, our frail moments last on and on, and grow robust in God's love.
"As for man, his days are like grass; he flourishes like a flower of the field; for the wind passes over it, and it is gone, and its place knows it no more," says Psalm 103:15-16 (ESV). I seem to hear the wind in the grass when I read those verses--such a quiet, haunting sound. Nothing sets a soul aware of its tiny distinctness like wind in grass. Alone with the wind, I am pared down--a single soul-sprout in a large world, infinitesimal in the scheme of things, yet, somehow, of special value. Listening to the wind accompaniment to the verses, I feel an odd sensation of peace. Perhaps it is that I have become so engrossed in my troubles that the reminder of their fleeting nature--even of the fleeting nature of my life--is a relief. Like taking a walk in the city park, or pausing in the country to draw a deep breath from miles of open air, the verses remind me that my story is not all (or most) of existence. But the wind would be only sad and cold without the next portion of the psalm. "But the steadfast love of the Lord is from everlasting to everlasting on those who fear him, and his righteousness to children's children, to those who keep his covenant and remember to do his commandments" (v.17).
I can no longer walk with my dad; he died when I was 19. For the past number of years, my aunt has poured herself into serving my grandma, now in advanced stages of dementia and failing health. We feel the wind, but we live in the Lord's steadfast love--though we may sense its presence as little as the miles of air pressing over us everyday. We are confident in that love because of a New Covenant bought by our Brother, who remembered the commandments perfectly. We are brief and precious as a roadside flower. And yet, our frail moments last on and on, and grow robust in God's love.
"city-girl clumsy" -- what a great phrase!
ReplyDeleteThis essay is altogether lovely in its combination of loss and hope. Thanks for sharing it.
Thank you, Dr. Impson <3
ReplyDeleteThose last two sentences, especially.
ReplyDelete