“His eyes are on their ways. They are exalted for a short time, but no longer. They are humbled then gathered in like everyone else; cut off like heads of grain.” – Job 24
One day this will be me too. The harvest come, the scythe swung, my bounty offered up. What will it look like, this life? What will I have to offer — what good toward the world which bore me and the people who bore me up?
A life of pleasure seeking isn’t wasted, but I sometimes wonder about its gain. Some time to sit, time to think. What kind of legacy is the frantic one? There is beauty in being, simply being, forgiveness for waste, and meaning in making. Birth is an invitation, a proposal of God’s Spirit: “do something, ya?” My death the final word of answer, “here.”
I wonder if I’ll reach that place open.
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