My pen hovers over the blank page, frozen. Questions and half formed ideas wait for the hand to move so they can leave their mark. A cloud hovers overhead, pulling the writer's focus. Anticipation and expectation flash through her mind. Could this be the day? Her eyes trace the shape of the cloud hoping for a hint that rain will come today. Her hand remains in place waiting for the words to fall.
The animals retreat from fields toward lakes and rivers in search of water. Birds cluster along receding shorelines. Dust swirls on each gust of wind. Anxiety and worry taint voices. And still the pen does not move. Whispered prayers hang in the air. Will they be answered today?
Without prayer our words are as dry as the sloughs that pockmark the prairie during drought. Readers and listeners retreat in search of Spirit infused stories and teachings just a the deer in search of life giving water. My words alone are empty and hollow. They may hold just enough to taunt like a two minute mist that fizzles to nothing before it starts.
Recently, my pen sat unused most days, my thoughts contained behind a barrier. Distraction abounds. Discussions of pandemics, politics and weather events create a cacophony of noise. Only when I stop and listen do I hear the persistent calm of the Prince of Peace. Only when I pause and pray do I remember the rains will come in time. As I walk through my days, I whisper the words on my heart, all my fears and failures, hopes and dreams. I wait for the words to form and hope that when I speak or write they hold something of value because they are not my words alone.
Psalm 42:1 As the deer pants for streams of water, so my soul pants for you, O God.