It was one of those days when the weather was perfect, which only happens once or twice a year in Southern Georgia. This time, it happened to be in December. The sixteenth, to be exact. I sat on our front porch swing, my right foot propped up on the seat’s edge, my left pushing against the earth heel-to-toe, gently propelling me forward. My body fell into the rhythm of a heartbeat. I sipped the hot tea, from the mug I had specially chosen--the snowmen and Christmas trees reflected my holiday mood. The windchimes sang with the breeze, and I closed my eyes. Sunbeams flashed gold and orange like autumn leaves through my eyelids. It occurred to me then why God chose to rest on the seventh day of creation. Not because He had to, but because rest was such a beautiful thing. For a moment I wished I had brought out a notebook to write my thoughts in because of the beautiful thoughts I was having. Then I was glad I hadn’t. I was glad to simply rest, to simply be. I could just feel without worrying about capturing the feeling with words. As I writer, I was constantly trying to fit my life into words. But now, as I rocked back and forth in winter’s pale sunlight, I could simply live.
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