Yesterday afternoon, I put the kids down for a nap and then started scurrying around, trying to cross things off my to-do list.  Silly me - all this talk about being vs doing more, and about trying to make time for sitting still with Jesus each day - and there I was, still running around, trying to clean the house and do the laundry and make phone calls.  All of a sudden, the sky turned dark and started rumbling, and then let loose with pouring rain.  Not too many minutes later, and my lights flickered, the washing machine quieted, and the vacuum turned off - the power went out.  And stayed out.  

It was almost as if God was giving me a firm nudge to go and sit, to be, to breathe in all that is around me.  I had no choice.  There were no lights.  The babies were fast asleep (how they slept through all the super loud booming is beyond me!). Everything was quiet, except for the raindrops pelting down.  I grabbed my Bible and journal, some books, poured the leftover coffee over ice, and hunkered down in the chair by the window.  The door was open to the porch.  It was just me, the sound of the rain, my books, and a stinky Lucy.  And it was glorious.  I realized that I haven't really "unplugged" in a long time.  No, I don't have a smart phone, and I'm not constantly online, and the TV is hardly ever on around here.  But do you know how much noise a house creates?  The fans and the AC and the laundry and the fish tanks and the baby monitor and the vacuum and the music playing?  It was all gone.  It was quiet.  And I loved it.  

I could think and listen and write and read, and smell that blasted dog.  And it was refreshing (minus the stinky hound) and so needed for my heart and my soul.  The power came on an hour or so later.  And I was ready to once again tackle my daily list, plus the babes were starting to rustle in their beds.  But for that time, that quiet space, that "power-less" hour - it was beautiful, and a great reminder of how I need to create the space for moments similar to that.  

Oh, that I would learn what it really means to be still and know, to understand that there is so much beauty in the quiet-filled spaces, in the times we put away everything that seems so normal, and just be.