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Aug
2

The Peace Thief

And they heard the voice of

YahWeH Elohim

walking about in the garden in the cool of the day…

~Genesis 3:8

An owl hoots into silence just as night evaporates to a dream. Minty breezes ruffle leaves. The mist swirls as the sun breaks through the horizon, its light skipping through the trees. Chives nod heavy purple heads as you pass by. Spires of phlox and plumes of astibles reflect the last of the moon’s warmth. Your bare feet step softly, toes sinking into the moist rich soil of this earth as along you amble in silence and solitude this well-traveled path. Here a stream ripples to a small pond, fawns graze along its rim and drink its pure water as dragonflies dart. Over this hill is a favorite rock -just a step past the break in the peach trees.

 

Arriving you reach up to grasp breakfast. Sweet, juicy, completely perfect: in your life, you have known nothing else.

 

 

Perched here in the gently waking day, patient you wait as the meadow begins to stir. The tweets and chirps of good mornings exchanged drift on a breeze. Gold finches sit atop bachelor buttons. In this jeweled field of wildflowers, spheres of nigella are fine blue polka dots haphazard amongst daisies and foxglove, larkspur and delphinium. Sunflowers, amaranth, goldenrod gracefully wave.


This place is delicate with infinite wonder; to delight fully with the awe of curiosity is appropriate praise.

Why just yesterday, you were waylaid by a honeybee hive. The honeybees buzzing about the clumps of clover, the borage, busy rustling lavender, carrying bits of milkweed. Do you remember how with swift feet, you followed the flight of the honeybee, back to his orange blossom home? Remember the soft hum of the hive, how with eyes closed you stood near, your whole body tingling, absorbing the vibration of tens of thousands of bees? How it lulled you to stillness in midday in the warmth of afternoon as bees rested like ornaments in your hair?
Yes, smiling you remember the sweetness of the afternoon, the golden honey glistening in the sun, buttery and rich upon your tongue. “Good morning Eve,” YaHWeH says as he sits down beside you.

 
“Good morning Abba.” And in silence, you wait.

 
“Let’s walk,” He says. You follow, stepping down into the scruffy, woody thyme and silky violas growing in the rocks. Down to the meadow you walk with Elohim, quietly conversing, curiously anticipating. Standing in the midst of wildflowers, YaHWeH says, “Eve, look here.” He plucks a flower, holds it before you.

 
It’s lovely. A little globe of wispy blue leaves, like a periwinkle asparagus fern growing from a star. “This is called Nigella.”
“They are everywhere.” And they are. Patches of blue dots burst amongst the daisies and poppies in this field uninhibited.
“Adam likes to call it Love in a Mist.”

 
“Why?” you ask because you have been gifted with infinite curiosity.
“Sit down here with me.” You sit and gaze up into the meadow. Blue stars sit in a heavenly mist of green; it is the nighttime sky given the color of day.

 
He reaches over and gently places the flower in your hand. No longer the beauty it was, it is now stiff and the color of driftwood. It rattles about in your palm.

 
“Go ahead and close your hand.” Slowly, obediently you curl long fingers around this fragile creation and this small paper globe dissolves into a handful of tiny black tear-drop seeds. “I had to make them delicate so a drop of rain could open and gentle breezes carry them.” At His Word, a warm wind blows soft and the seeds scatter to the meadow. “Do you see how they land in the midst of all the other flowers and sprout up and bloom?”

 
“Yes,” you whisper.

 
“This is what happens when you spread love. It bursts up in unexpected places later on. Wherever love is given a spot to grow, it will spread. Just like these Nigella seeds.”

Elohim leaves you to ponder new thoughts and you do; you sit still and ponder the beautiful uniqueness of YaHWeH.

Yet now, someone creeps close, longing to nestle into your dream, your peace, your perfect. How strange after this divine day to find a rogue in the garden. He will ruin your perfect existence, but about this you will remain ignorant until it is too late. He has been patiently waiting for an opportunity and here you are, sitting in a field like a bunny munching greens; and here he sits so close plotting your fall. Unaware, you stretch long in the fading sun of twilight and drift into perfect dreams.

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© Elizabeth Marchman and A Quiet Chaos LLC., 2011 | Designed & Developed by Author Media