Cheese Air & Ravine Singing

I’m back at school. I’ve technically been back at school since August 10th. We just finished up week 2 of actual school, like actual classes and homework and all that. It’s been busy to say the least.

Thursday was the first day of September, and it was 106 degrees. That is one way to start a fall month (I consider September a fall month even though the beginning is still kind of summery here). It’s really humid in this section of the country. That day whenenever I stepped outside it was like I was trying to breathe in cheese sauce. The air was so thick and gooey…and hot. It made me feel crazy just breathing.

That’s where I’m at in life a lot of days. Breathing in cheese sauce. Feeling hectic by existence.

The hot temperatures these days have been reminding me of Texas. I felt less like I was breathing in cheese sauce there, and more like I was being made crispy like a potato chip.

The other day when I had 800 million of things to do I decided to take a moment and sit outside on a red bench under the clarity of the sun, under the heaviness of the air, and I thought about being still. I thought about those random nights in San Angelo, Texas when we would go out into the darkness of the night to just be with God. I thought about sitting on the dirt under the stars. I thought about overlooking a ravine while being bitten by ants. I thought about being secluded by mesquite trees and playing guitar, singing toward the sky.

Those were moments of sweet freedom. My chaos released into the air with every word sung out, taken away with each dissipating shooting star. It seemed easier then. Nothing was stopping me from throwing it all out there.

Well what now?

I guess I am uncovering the realization that I am still breathing. That although the air may feel thicker here, though there are no ravines in these flatlands to sing over, there is still air to draw into my lungs. It doesn’t matter that it may feel as thick as cheese sauce. I may lack the feeling of serenity, but the God of peace is still placing stars in the sky, breathing into me. And I will sing for Him.

I will sing to Him over a ravine. I will sing to Him on red benches. I will sing to Him in Texas, New Hampshire, Illinois. I will sing to Him in a chapel. I will sing to Him in the emptiness of my room on Labor Day weekend.

I will sing to Him. I will sing about Him. I will sing for Him.

And I will breathe in, letting whatever thickness of air overtake my lungs, to breathe out a sigh of relief that I have a reason to sing.

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