I found myself drawn to Psalm 1.
More than drawn.
Like a bird to a nest in the branches of this old poem.
Like roots through dirt and stone.
And I didn’t know why.
So, I curiously stayed in Psalm 1.
Sure, I read other passages of Scripture in the meantime, but I always found myself going back, knowing that I hadn’t yet learned what God had for me.
Waiting, singing in my spirit, I shall not be, I shall not be moved . . . .
Blessed is the one . . . . whose delight is in the law of the Lord, and who meditates on his law day and night. That person is like a tree planted by streams of water, which yields its fruit in season and whose leaf does not wither— whatever she does prospers.
The days turned into weeks, and the weeks into months.
Singing in my Spirit, He’s the one that’s leading, I shall not be moved.
A year of Michigan’s seasons; another year of life gone by.
If I trust Him ever, I shall not be moved; He will fail me never, I shall not be moved.
The tree in my mind budded, bloomed, flourished, shed its leaves, and then submitted to the winter.
I love the picture of a strong tree planted by the water.
That’s the vivid picture.
Those who meditate on God’s Word, the Psalmist says, are like strong trees planted firmly by water.
And one day, I suddenly knew why I was contemplating the tree.
The line of the Psalm that wanted to change me was the one that eluded me for a year, but when I finally grasped it, I knew.
It reads, “Like a tree planted by streams of water, which yields its fruit in season . . .”
Yielding fruit in season.
The message for me was this – Sara, you seem to think you are an anomaly of nature; you seem to think you can yield fruit day after day and week after week and year after year.
Running yourself to death.
Saying yes more than you say no.
Pride in doing instead of humility in being.
That’s not how nature works.
Be Still and know that I am God.
So, I began to shed the commitments that I could. I began to say no to requests. Like a tree, I submitted to Winter.
At first, it was a vulnerable feeling . . . cold . . .eerily quiet.
I didn’t know what to do if I wasn’t busy, busy, busy yielding fruit.
I didn’t know how to talk to people without talking about being busy.
I didn’t know what others would think if I wasn’t busy.
Busy had come to define my life, and the Psalmist reminded me that life is deeper than that. Life is about being more than it’s about doing.
The lesson of the tree is still changing me.
I’ve learned to welcome Winter, to love Michigan’s stark seasons, to be still and thank God that I am so much more than what I do.