number ten.

a letter to God from my hammock.

Hi God.

It’s really nice outside today. You’ve outdone yourself with the leaves this year…I’m staring up at the four different trees intersecting above my head right this minute and it’s a swirl of fading greens, deep mahogany reds, flaming oranges, and glowing golds. The evening breeze is making them rustle ever so softly and I can feel my blood pressure going down by the minute.

This week has been…something else. I ran away to Colorado for something good and beautiful and came back feeling more exhausted than ever. I think getting sick was the major culprit behind that one, but this also felt deeper. This exhaustion was…already there. The mountains were calling and I didn’t want to let it go to voicemail. But when I picked up the phone, I couldn’t hear anything.

Everything is so loud. The media, the calendar, the task lists, the texts, the guilt, the pressure, the voice inside my head. It’s all so very loud and I’m having a hard time turning it off.

“Accomplish more!! No, rest harder!! Serve where you’re called, but learn to say no!! Love your family; make sure to set healthy boundaries!! Exercise to feel strong…love the body God gave you just the way it is!! Read this book!! Listen to this podcast!! But make sure to consume less media!! Keep growing!! Never stop learning!! Know your limits!! Vote your conscience!! Initiate conversations with guys…but let them lead!! Wipe off the counter!! Real homes have messes too!! Balance the budget!! Be responsible!! But have fun!! Live your one life!!”

God, I am so tired. You already know that. But then I feel guilty for being tired when I have so much to be thankful for. I don’t think that’s how you want me to live. I don’t think that’s how Jesus lived.

But I’m sitting here in this hammock, listening to the evening birds and watching the sun sink unhurried into the mountains and I am begging you to show me the way, yet again. I know one thing more than any other thing and that is this: You are the only one who will give me rest. You ARE my rest. No matter how many times I forget.

I can see the edges of the leaves now, growing dark against the fading light. The edges are all unique, like patterns of lace meticulously cut by an artist. You didn’t have to make leaves beautiful. But you did. The wind tickles a stray piece of hair against my face. You didn’t have to put music in the wind. But you did.

Everything out here shouts of your quiet intentionality. That’s what I want to do, to be, to learn. I want to do what you want me to do, to be who you want me to be, to learn what you ask me to learn.

I’m feeling a little overwhelmed at the moment, God, but you’ve known that about me for 26 years. It doesn’t surprise you. But you keep surprising me.

And I’m already surprised how much better I feel after sitting out here for an hour, breathing in the quiet stillness. Maybe I’ll do it again tomorrow.

It’s not as loud anymore…I’m here, and I’m listening.

Yours (for better or worse),

Riley

PS - Thank you for making pumpkins. They’re delightful, and in case no one has thanked you specifically for creating those today, I would like to do so now.