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The Sun Has Long Been Set

June flew by like so many moths dancing at dusk toward the setting sun. After a July night of sisters, I drove home under the light of a lazy, hanging half moon, grateful for the knowing that my husband would have fallen asleep waiting for me, that my front stoop would welcome with the scent of petunias and pansies, and that I need not parade and masquerade on such a night as this {see the Wordsworth poem below}.

During those last, concluding miles of a road trip, something in your soul feels an even greater the tug toward home. The adventures, the mishaps and the memories of your trip lay jumbled in suitcases with dirty socks and sightseeing brochures, but you move with the instinct that leads the homing pigeon to its roost and you know those things can wait until morning to be unpacked and sorted. Those first few minutes reacquainting with the house, checking the yard, flinging wide windows to fresh air, glancing at the mail without needing to open any of it — they are the rituals of homecoming, of being in the place where you are. There is comfort, even, in seeing the stack of laundry that didn’t get filed away in the flurry of busyness before the trip — it’s waiting, untouched, ready for you to be home.

My night of sisters was a road trip of the heart, so much good stuff, so much fun, but bumpy at times and difficult to navigate. A reading of the map of a life of shared experiences. Areas to avoid, places to revisit, memories to relive. A trip I was glad in heart to take, but gladder yet to return to the sleeping sounds of my family, to that comfort for my soul that is offered, like elixir in a golden cup, to be drank and savored. It is an intriguing drink, with a subtext and finish as unique as my own fingerprint; it is the soul-warming truth that I know where I’ve been and I can accept that in its entirety as gift because where I’ve been has taught my soul to takes hands and embrace who I am. I am settled into myself enough that the revisiting the memories, like taking long forgotten country roads, doesn’t always lead to being lost or getting nowhere. I can turn the car and point us toward home again, toward who I know I am — hidden, held, holding in the Comforter, the spirit of Christ in me — over-arched and girded beneath by the beautiful wholeness of my savior, much like that silver-glow of the half-moon that leads me home after a night of beautiful sisters on such a night as this.

The Sun Has Long Been Set


amoonlit road, John Atkinson Grimshaw

The stars are out by twos and threes,
The little birds are piping yet
Among the bushes and trees;
There’s a cuckoo, and one or two thrushes,
And a far-off wind that rushes,

And a sound of water that gushes,
And the cuckoo’s sovereign cry
Fill all the hollow of the sky.
Who would go parading
In London, and masquerading
On such a night of June
With that beautiful soft half-moon,
And all these innocent blisses?
On such a night as this is!
— William Wordworth

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6 Comments

    • Thanks so much, Tony. I’m figuring out what it is I’m supposed to do with it:)Gifts are funny that way. They like to be opened and used and shared.

  1. Very nice, melodic and comforting.

    It’s when the darkness surrounds us and the lonely silence drives our brain toward our heart that capture these rare moments. Reality comes in the morning, but for now, it’s perfect.

    • Hi Floyd!
      Yeah, sometimes reality comes in the morning, or in an email or a phone call, but it comes. There is gift in the silent reckoning and welcoming, for sure.

  2. Danelle says

    Beautiful. This made me want to take an unplanned trip just to come home again.

    • Go for it! I’d love to throw some clothes in a bag and head to the ocean. I’m longing to see it. Thanks for reading!

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