"You have a choice," are the words I hear, as though spoken aloud, as I transition from a state of sleep to wakefulness.
As I make my way through the dark hallway, with our quiet black dog I sense following me, I open the door and walk outside into the cool morning air. The stars are still out, arranged brightly in their infinite patterns. I feel hopeful as I gaze up into the vastness of a universe created by a Creator so immense my finite mind cannot comprehend how my tiny issues could ever figure into His plan. And yet somehow they do. I can choose to believe in a predetermined nature of things or in randomness. I can choose to have hope or allow it to fade away like the stars at dawn when the sky brightens and a new day begins. I have a choice.
Back inside, I feed the dog and get myself a cup of coffee. We go back down the hall to settle into our morning routine: sitting in front of my computer listening to a daily devotion, as the dog curls up in his chair and goes back to sleep. Birds welcome in the dawn with their singing as the first colors, pink and purple, are replaced by orange and yellow that can now be seen through the trees. It is the quiet I love most. I could work on my sewing, continue reading a book I started yesterday, or any number of other tasks. I choose to sit in the stillness, listening to the variety of bird songs and the rhythmic breathing of my dog. I have a choice.
I think back to the other day when I had invited an older pastor friend who has given me good counsel to join me for coffee so we can talk things over. It has been awhile since we had talked and even though there were brief email exchanges, I am not at all certain he is going to show up when I walk into the bookstore coffee shop where we had met in the past. By the time he is officially late, I decide to buy myself a cup of coffee and sit in the back of the store in one of the comfortable chairs looking out the window. I can overhear bits and pieces of a conversation behind me that sound like a job interview. The interviewee speaks in an overly excited tone, the kind he imagines the interviewer wants to hear. I think about the ways I have tried to portray myself so others will listen more intently, take what I have to offer more seriously. I have reached an age in which I can expend my energy trying to be understood or not care as much about what those who do not know me think about me. I have a choice.
Half an hour late, I realize my friend may in fact not be able to meet with me. I drink my coffee slowly keeping a check on my emotional state. I know whether he shows up or not, this will be our last counseling session. Sometimes I just know these things. So I sit looking at the titles of the books on the shelves, breathing deeply, reminding myself not to cry. You have a choice, I tell myself. Whether you stay or whether you go changes nothing, my self-talk continues. You already know the unanswerable questions. You know them by heart. You ask them all the time. You keep thinking you are going to somehow stumble upon a scenario that will be the absolute perfect one and there you will dwell. But real life doesn't work that way. That may be why you find yourself looking into these books so often. You long to live in a way that cannot be. You want to live in a world that does not exist. You like to play make-believe, thinking things can be how you want them to be. But they can't. And they will never be . . . this side of heaven. You have a choice. You can decide to take whatever happens for what it is or you can walk away from it--figuratively speaking, that is. You cannot really walk away from anything because it is going to be tagging along after you. It is you.
I have a choice.
As I make my way through the dark hallway, with our quiet black dog I sense following me, I open the door and walk outside into the cool morning air. The stars are still out, arranged brightly in their infinite patterns. I feel hopeful as I gaze up into the vastness of a universe created by a Creator so immense my finite mind cannot comprehend how my tiny issues could ever figure into His plan. And yet somehow they do. I can choose to believe in a predetermined nature of things or in randomness. I can choose to have hope or allow it to fade away like the stars at dawn when the sky brightens and a new day begins. I have a choice.
Back inside, I feed the dog and get myself a cup of coffee. We go back down the hall to settle into our morning routine: sitting in front of my computer listening to a daily devotion, as the dog curls up in his chair and goes back to sleep. Birds welcome in the dawn with their singing as the first colors, pink and purple, are replaced by orange and yellow that can now be seen through the trees. It is the quiet I love most. I could work on my sewing, continue reading a book I started yesterday, or any number of other tasks. I choose to sit in the stillness, listening to the variety of bird songs and the rhythmic breathing of my dog. I have a choice.
I think back to the other day when I had invited an older pastor friend who has given me good counsel to join me for coffee so we can talk things over. It has been awhile since we had talked and even though there were brief email exchanges, I am not at all certain he is going to show up when I walk into the bookstore coffee shop where we had met in the past. By the time he is officially late, I decide to buy myself a cup of coffee and sit in the back of the store in one of the comfortable chairs looking out the window. I can overhear bits and pieces of a conversation behind me that sound like a job interview. The interviewee speaks in an overly excited tone, the kind he imagines the interviewer wants to hear. I think about the ways I have tried to portray myself so others will listen more intently, take what I have to offer more seriously. I have reached an age in which I can expend my energy trying to be understood or not care as much about what those who do not know me think about me. I have a choice.
Half an hour late, I realize my friend may in fact not be able to meet with me. I drink my coffee slowly keeping a check on my emotional state. I know whether he shows up or not, this will be our last counseling session. Sometimes I just know these things. So I sit looking at the titles of the books on the shelves, breathing deeply, reminding myself not to cry. You have a choice, I tell myself. Whether you stay or whether you go changes nothing, my self-talk continues. You already know the unanswerable questions. You know them by heart. You ask them all the time. You keep thinking you are going to somehow stumble upon a scenario that will be the absolute perfect one and there you will dwell. But real life doesn't work that way. That may be why you find yourself looking into these books so often. You long to live in a way that cannot be. You want to live in a world that does not exist. You like to play make-believe, thinking things can be how you want them to be. But they can't. And they will never be . . . this side of heaven. You have a choice. You can decide to take whatever happens for what it is or you can walk away from it--figuratively speaking, that is. You cannot really walk away from anything because it is going to be tagging along after you. It is you.
I have a choice.