Every now and then, my heart is crushed with yearning for a misty heath and sheep to tend and soda bread bronzed from a wood stove. I desire to hear the wind rustling through untamed grass, a cowbell echoing from the heart of a wooded dell, a collie barking in a farmyard—not the ding of a text message, the buzz of the fridge, the rumble of a truck.
But freedom is not a dream or an idealized fantasy.
Freedom is opening my hands to the sky and receiving whatever God desires to give me.
I feel my heart thrill when the wild horse graces the horizon, dares to wander near. I do not seize a rope or an enticement of oats; I stand at the window and behold. And when the horse snorts and bursts into a gallop toward places I cannot follow, I remain where I am and thank God for His gift—fleeting or otherwise.
Freedom is also letting go, because good things roam free. And must remain so, lest in the capturing the goodness is broken.
As I am called to accept life as it comes, so too am I called to accept God as He comes—in fire-bright consolation or in deep-dark desolation. I should not cling to those times when He seemed to be breathing in my ear; I should not reject His hallowed stillness enfolding me now. If I look behind to what was, I am grasping and shredding mere memories, even as I brush aside the Presence in the present moment. If I peer ahead to what may be, I live for a mirage.
Rather, I gaze up at the pristine blue sky and offer my gratitude to God: whether He leads me through emerald heights or rugged canyons, I have Him. And if I remain open to His will, palms up, goodness will ever be present in my life, and I will ever be free.
