Sunday's not so silent

I think it was on Sunday when I sat down on the bench (the one without the back) on our front porch to listen to the praise offered for life, sustenance, and even the hardness of the day that made them strong. In the midst of the cacophony of what seemed unintelligible at times I could see evidence of stain that encroached on the perfection that Eden was and will be. Yet, enough remained so that there was praise. If it is all robbed from me, will there be enough to attach my praise to? Will I see the all-sufficiency of His grace even if the Adversary is allowed to strike the people I love most? Or, through and through, will the stain penetrate to the core and color me so completely that I curse Him?

His praise goes on. From the quasar that sings its eerie aria to the wind swept trees clapping their leaves to a rhythm that celebrates their age and youth every Spring, to the worm fleeing their flooded home….the stones will cry out. When will my praise cease? May my last breath be that which cries His goodness to me. He deserves so much more. Even from the sparrows that He feeds.

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