Wednesday, 6:50 AM
For a year now, I’ve been consistently devoting, as they say, the first five minutes of my day to reading scripture and praying. Spending time with God, as they say. This is likely one hundred percent non-impressive to seminary students or anyone raised in the evangelical church, but for me, it’s an actual achievement.
At this juncture, however, I’m tempted to write off the practice as simplistic. Shallow. Even empty at times. After all, I’m talking to him all day long – consulting, petitioning, thanking. What’s so special to him (or me), about my habit of sitting down, confronting the blank journal page and open Bible, and recording the thoughts and/or inspirations that may come/or not come?
It’s hard to press through discouragement sometimes, to take a deep mental breath and reach through the thick and thorny brush of my pessimism, pull the book within reading range. Slow down the thoughts that, from the moment I rise, are already racing, planning, spinning the day… and listen to the voice behind the verses.
But in my soul I know, as the scholarly saints of old and of today (who are, I want to emphasize, most definitely not me) know, that there’s always more to be heard.
That devoting the first five hours of your day would not get you to the end of the river of Life; would not exhaust the Love that is waiting to pour into your words and actions, should you open to receive it.
What’s amazing is that I still resist.