I walked outside this morning, bundled up in a couple of sweatshirts, my coat, a scarf and my slippers. It was 6am and I sat on the porch swing hanging *under* our porch. I started to swing. I watched a few lone cars traveling west on 1-64, I saw the sun come up in the reflection on the chapel windows. I took a breath…
and then I smelled it. Winter.
This is my first Thanksgiving without my family. I realize this is something I need to prepare myself for, because it’s likely the Lord will take me far, far away from them after I finish my degree. But sitting on that swing this morning, shivering under all my layers, trying hard to forget that I live in a city… I didn’t want to be here. This is the first time I can honestly say that being in St. Louis wasn’t what I wanted for the moment. Being away from what I know and where I am most comfortable is not where I wanted to be.
The smell of winter has its own life. It’s crisp, cold, clean. For me, it’s always held a promise it in. The promise of God making a dying land beautiful again, a promise of warm sweaters and hot chocolate, the promise of special time with friends, drinking wine and making Christmas cookies.
I need to remind myself to breathe.
Because there is promise in that breath.
I know this probably doesn’t make sense to anyone. I think I just needed to write this for me.