Waiting for Waters to Stir

 I could toil for years to build the systems and strategies to destroy a long dead enemy, a departed army or a retired general who has long since forgotten my name and the threat I may have once posed. I’ll turn circles on the methods and the means without spilling the ink or laying down the tracks. It’s easier, isn’t it, to convince yourself that you’re preparing, and preparing well, rather than do the work itself. You can tinker endlessly to ensure that you’re perfectly poised - but for what? To let the rifle rust and the ship run aground? 

The simple satisfaction of leaving a trace, etched into a tree, suits my disposition far more than what may be perceived as grand and noble designs. But still, it’s the thought of losing even that humble trace that troubles me. It shouldn’t. But when you resolve to bring something to the table, the simple melody of your own making amidst the cacophony of the world, you find it hard to abandon it all. If it matters, it should be hard to abandon. The risk of pride has certainly been tempered by days and days of letting disciplines wane and fade. 

I must persist. One simple act of service, of prayer, of petition, of meaning. One at a time, to usurp comfort, convenience and indecision. There is a machinery that toils and churns endlessly, when I let it. I must orient it towards Bethlehem, towards Calvary. I must stop waiting for the waters to stir.