I looked around this morning.
Same room, same spot for journaling, reading and prayer. Outside the front window is my favorite tree, protecting us like it has for 15 years. So faithful, that tree. It’s all just the same.
Behind my spot, hanging on the wall is one of my precious things. One of those things I would try to grab if the house was burning. There aren’t many of these things, but this is one. It’s an oak hymnal rack from our church in Minneapolis, a precious memory of countless hours spent in worship there. That sanctuary space yielded graciously to new space, so one of the racks hangs on my wall now…as others do in the homes of my dearest friends from those days. More than a memento. So much more. For those of us with these, we so get it. Just a glance, and we get it.
I don’t love new. I love worn. Broken-in. Weathered. Sifted. Maybe even…repaired.
And once again, I listen for the lesson.