Rooted Hearts

  God speaks to you when you least expect it. Today it was while I was doing the laundry. Prayer of Peace Like a petulant child, A tantrum for your truth. The river that yearns for the sea, Your light contains me. The anticipation of a child reading their first word May your words encompass my very heart. A bird who flies about the moon sculpting a nest Let the Spirit find rest within my soul. Then I shall stand bold and strong in a place known only to you and I, It will be sacred, steeped in Grace, held in splendor by my Creator. Teri Carlson

 I always become a bit melancholy in the days directly after Christmas. Some might say that isn't unusual most feel an anticlimactic let down. But mine goes much deeper. Of course, I am sad that after months of preparation the day seems to come and go, like a quick summer storm that disappears back into the clouds from which it came. My heart almost aches as I walk through the stores with sale signs cascading the picked over shelves. It's as if December 25th is a distant memory the day after it dawns. Even now driving down the street (December 28th), I have seen any number of Christmas trees cast off to the curb. Why do people insist on erasing any trace of this beautiful day? Theologically the Maji are still tracking their journey to meet the newborn king.  Yes, I can still hear the squeal of my youngest granddaughter when she opened the Barbie she wanted. The sparkle in her eyes will light my dreams for months. Or my youngest grandson's smile when he saw the collection of