You are so peculiar. Tomorrow is April 1. It’s 70 degrees outside. Windows are open. I smell someone grilling.
And yet, I am told, that in three days it will be snowing? God, has no one told you that it is spring? All winter long, skiers, tourists, and Christmas enthusiasts alike, prayed and begged for snow. And we got nothing (much). And now it’s April. And it’s gonna snow.
You sure made a strange world, dear God. And how we love to force this globe into our own square hole. We call them ‘seasons’ and pretend we can this determine their regularity. We make forecasts; the Farmer’s Almanac dukes it out with NOAA. And yet, at the end of the day, we’ve no clue as to what’ll really happen.
(Did I mentioned it’s supposed to snow on Sunday?)
God, I want to find myself in your peculiar grace. I want to be accepted into the love you’ve shown which, frankly, makes very little sense. There’s nothing in this relationship for you. Everything for me.
So God remind me of the strangeness of your character, the absurdity of your love. Remind me in little ways, a soft breeze, a lingering sunset, the sounds of birds in the tree above where I sit… snow in April.
Make me strange to the world as it is; make me a beacon for the world to come. Save me from normality. Save me peculiarly.