I don’t think I can officially be a blogger when, every 3 months or so, I tack up a quarterly post. My Instagram posts are either paragraphs or novellas because they’re not just pictures of my kids or a yoga pose, but also a contribution & a conversation. They’re my way to share my love of words.
But, about once a week, I miss being here. I miss my blog and want to pull myself close to it. I actually journal about how I miss writing and make lists of the blog posts that I hope will see the light of day. (Maybe they will someday). I had so much to say about our trip to Colorado this July. I wanted to capture the summer days at my parents’ new lake house, where dock-jumping was an all-day activity. I missed the birthday posts with the party pictures. I wanted to continue documenting all of the twists and turns that got me to the beauty of today.
It’s not about the writing. It’s about the careful time-carving that I still struggle with. It’s about the quiet, the reflective stillness, the response to the ache to write. I’m terrible at creating that space for myself. I struggle to be the tea-sipping, blanket-cuddling, book-reading person I want to be. I’m still swallowed by the everyday balance of this delicate, challenging life, and the list of things I really want to do grows longer, longer…and longer. Maybe you relate. I’m going to try to come back here more and more. Not really for you, but for me. (For you, I’d recommend more-consistent, wordier, funnier, more creative blogs with charm and flair that my incredible friends faithfully contribute to at least once a week. Let me know if you want those addresses.)
For today, I’m here with a simple reflection that wants to work its way out. Just two days ago, on September 29, a lunar eclipse took place and it left me stunned. Standing beneath it, I felt like I was shrinking and growing at the same time. And it was an experience that no Instagram photo could capture (although the iphone people sure tried). From our deck, right between the triangle of 3 telephone lines, the moon hung, low and orange. The balance of light was steady and the quiet all around was contagiously peaceful. Josh and I watched the eclipse took place, and it was both striking and eery. It made me scared and comforted at the same time. When we realize how small we really are compared to the realities around us, there just isn’t a more appropriate response than worship.
I love the reminder that we're both small and significant. We should feel that healthy, rightful sense of smallness because the universe is so massively huge. The blood moon is so much more grandiose than anything we could create or form. And I'm merely one person, held to the earth, struggling to live a life of even smaller intention. I can easily feel lost, minor, unsubstantial. This amount of grandeur is so overwhelming. And yet, this smallness becomes great because as breath-taking as that moon is, it wasn't actually made in the image of it's Creator. It isn't a temple of the Holy Spirit. I am.
I made my way back to Bible Study Fellowship this year and just began studying the book of Revelation. For those of you unfamiliar with BSF, this Bible study takes a whole-life commitment with daily homework and applicable, cross-referenced, exhaustive readings of Scripture. They don't mess around. It's a purposely structured format with small group discussion, lecture and prayer. What's most amazing to me is that BSF is international, so not only am I studying Revelation with a multi-generational group of women in West Michigan, but I'm also linking arms with Christians worldwide as we sink our teeth in the most controversial book of the Bible. When I attend BSF, there's this bigger-than-me feeling I get because of the greater global story that's unfolding around me. I'm just a yoga teacher who shows up with a coffee-spilled lesson each week, but I'm a part of this movement across the entire world of Bible-hungry believers wanting to study the word of God and deeply understand the maker of the moon. We haven't read past chapter one and already I feel this growing appetite to truly know God, to believe in Him even more than I already do. I want to understand the dragon, the lampstands, the fire, the warfare. I want to be afraid and aware. But I also long to be prepared, comforted, and anchored.
As you grow, mature, change and move down the continuum of your life...remember what it feels like to be under a blood moon. Come back to that fearful, wonderous awe. Dwell in it and then worship this terrifying and loving God with every bit of energy you've got. And remember that the maker of the moon has love for you that is more powerful and beautiful than a lunar eclipse.