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My cheek meets cream crewel as I curl deeper into the sofa cushions. From the corner of my eye, I see soft gray outside our picture window deepening, the reflection of tree lights intensifying as the day fades.
I am so tired.
The lights glow out, into the yard, as ice pellets gather in the front bed. I surrender to the delicious temptation to close my eyes and rest {despite the Friday after-school squeals upstairs}. I wonder in this sweet, dusky moment, if I shouldn’t be using these last few minutes before sundown more productively?
A few moments ago, I opened the Advent book to see this:
With the peace and quiet of recollection may come the stark edge of fear that this doing nothing, this being, this offering of oneself for God … cannot possibly be enough.
Soon enough, I will rise. I will slide my knife through silky avocado and crisp bell pepper. I will roll limes beneath my palms before I half them, squeeze their faint green juice into olive oil, salt, pepper, and cumin, and whisk.
But, now.
Now I am empty, blurry round the edges, weak. I am hollow and yet filled. But, I am not hungry.
***
What matters, says the essay’s reverend-author, is not the doing and accomplishing. What matters is relationship, the being with.
Outside my window the light turns navy blue, and with an inaudible click, the outside lights bloom into the night. Ice pellets have turned furry white, and the ground is already covered. Virgin white.
I have not eaten since last night — a “stealth” fast I call it, in a message to a friend at three o’clock this afternoon {the point at which I felt I could confess to sympathetic ears this feat of deprivation, my first}. No one else knows.
It feels odd, this saying no in order to say yes, this purposeful absence to seek His presence.
We are accustomed to excess; we expect it, seek it, embrace it. We come from a long line of doers. Doing is, well … what we do.
But, today.
Today, we can simply pray and trust in His care. We can choose to let Him carry us, past hunger and doubt and temptation. We can witness how He shows up and sustains us in ways undeniable.
We create holy ground and give birth to Christ in our time not by doing but by believing and by loving the mysterious Infinite one who stirs within.
And, ultimately, at 5 p.m. on this short nearly-winter’s day, I have discovered the beauty in doing precisely nothing, closing my eyes and releasing to Him.
***
It is time.
I heat the cast iron skillet to screaming. I shower seasoning on the fish fillets thick, their skin a delicate winter sunset’s shade of faint pink-purple. I whir golden butter and more lime juice. I fold together corn and tomato, avocado and bell pepper; add the homemade vinaigrette.
After prayers, we eat. I spear a tender slab of seared fish, glazed with melted lime butter.
It slides down smooth, and I digest it, along with this knowledge.
Something I would not have thought possible He achieved through me today.
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