Recently, at another horrible first (and last) time doctor’s visit, I noticed a wall hanging that read, “Not all who wander are lost.” I slipped back onto my chair as every polite Southern Belle should. Within moments, I shot out of my seat with phone in hand to snap several series of photos of this and several other hangings.
As I slapped back down into my seat, I noticed that I was humming a distant memory. Suddenly, I was a nine year old sitting slumped over my piano playing a Christmas song unfamiliar to me. Granny had never played it. Mom had never even hummed while pulling homemade cream candy. I was getting bored with one elbow on the instrument’s ledge yet still trying the words and tune together as they mixed in an intriguing way. So tucked away was I in my cacophony cocoon, that I whipped around as my older sister walked up behind me singing the melody.
“I wonder as I wander out under the sky. How Jesus, our Savior, did come forth to die.” Maybe it was because I was just a nine year old kid, maybe it was because the most poignant moment of all my Christmases had been spoken during an almost silent speech by a cartoon boy, or maybe it was the first time that I had been hiding a pregnant belly during the holidays, but something caught hold of me in a good way, a very good way.
Church had not rung true for me yet no matter how many bells or how many dunks or how many potlucks. Nature did. Wandering in nature was where I found God. As I would stare up into the sky, it wasn’t a “if He made all the beautiful stars, why would He make me” ordeal (nod to Bill Paxton in Tombstone). No. What I wondered as I wandered was if He made me, how amazingly blessed I was I that He made the sun, the moon, and the stars at which I would marvel my whole life.
I live in wonder.
I dedicate this writing to my husband and his first and last sweet text to me. I miss you. I get it now, honey. Rest in God’s Peace.