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I race to catch everything that is thrown at me. A constant din pounds my head. Seldom do I sit and read a book, or watch a bird that sits and pecks at the ground revealing, a wiggling figure between its beak.
Time seems trivial; each day unfolds into the next like the clouds that roll across the sky, closing out the sunlight from my eyes, blustering along producing torrents before me. Duty calls whether the sun shines or not, and each morning the worries that plagued my heart during the night rear up and send gusts of fear billowing in my mind.
Shall I sacrificing laughter for an anxious heart?
Perchance I see the early bird I will tell him, that his fellow friends who stay up late and wake when the sun is high, still catch the wiggling worm, God seems to ensure their survival too, and joyfully they sing beyond the setting of the sun.
I will wait and watch for my time to catch a worm, to feel it wiggling between my fingers, knowing that soon I will taste victory in patience.
For today - I will read the book; I will witness the bird, as it watches the clouds roll across the sky, anticipating the coming rain, calling the wiggling squiggling worm out of the quagmire hiding place, then swooping down as its design was intended, flying its prey in heed of the laughter of its chicks' call...trusting its arrival.
'Indeed, the very hairs of your head are all numbered. Don't be afraid; you are worth more than many sparrows.' NIV. Luke 12 v 7
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