After a long afternoon of studying and with a heart and mind bursting with all sorts of lovely things and nothing but wound care and measurement conversions to occupy my head, I find myself turning to this almost-forgotten,
strange little pastime of writing to the world at large.
Our lives, ultimately, are to be lives lived in service to others, for the edification and growth of our brothers and sisters in Christ and for the drawing into eternal joy of those not yet family. That thought is underscored by every gleam of morning sunlight, every branch reaching out for the air a little further, every dying petal fluttering silently, its perfume having lit up the world with beauty already. As my petals fall throughout life, may their fragrance have been put to good use!
Though my heart may not always soar, and some days it genuinely crashes in so many pieces at the bottom of the darkest cavern, yet will I strive for the glory of my King. So my immediate purpose may not be thunderous glory, but here it is while I am in the little things, in the aligning of margins in unfriendly documents, in the laughter found in taping shut a drawn-on wound on a sad-faced manikin, or in smiling at those on whom I'm privileged enough to learn my career.
The little girl with bouncing curls who dances past me, that's the song of my heart, and she reminds me of my purpose, how the King wants my delight fixed in him, how my breathing is for Him, how my thinking of myself must be for Him, how my delights and my sorrows must be for Him.
And in Him I rest.