Autumn comes on timidly and I feel the last few strains of summer sing out to me when I attach the baby to my chest and take a bike ride. We ride the paths that wind through farm acreage the suburbs have forgotten about and I take great comfort in the bales of hay, and laundry hanging out to dry on a clothesline—calicos and whites and worn tea towels.
I hear the gentle bubble of a creek almost dried up completely and hidden by the prodigious weeds of summer. And there is beauty in these weeds, the golden grasses, the drying thistle, and this beauty is echoed in the fluff my baby’s straw colored hair against my chin.
I inhale the innards of country sweetness, the dazzling hints of fall, and between the gentle breeze and the slight whir of a bug buzzing by me, the silence is like a prayer.
I go to church on Sundays and at some point midweek, I will rush up the hill to the temple. I read my scriptures at night, after the children have gone to bed and we have prayed too, but the daily communal with God I most adore are the quiet, unexpected catches in my throat—the sky at sunset, the baby’s lips the moment before they break into a smile, reading the Book of Mormon with the kids at breakfast and feeling truth of parable and story more shockingly than I ever seem to feel while sleepy. The morning light seems a cathedral window when I wake early to exercise, the mountain miraculous in it’s changing coat, the ocean a wonder too sacred to express. And sometimes, nothing feels more satisfactory than knowing all my housework is finished for the day, and I go to bed with a full knowledge that I have done just as I should—and that Heavenly Father knows it. And approves.
I am grateful for daily worship—and for a God I seem to sense all around me. And I wonder, what are the things that you do to feel closer to Heavenly Father—and feel his love back—every day?
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