painted sky

Last night I walked into our laundry room and it was aglow. Pink. Like wearing red cellophane glasses. I’d just come from the kitchen where I could see the sky in front of our house darkening but had seen no hint of the colours radiating from the east.
I slung my camera around my neck and hurried outside. There, I was met with an explosion of pink, and beams of red as the sun sunk into the ocean. The sky was fairy floss pink against blue and I climbed our front wall to attempt to capture the colours of God’s masterpiece. 

I sat for a while on that wall, watching the colours and the light change. 
A gentle reminder that the hand that paints the sky is the same one who directs my steps. That I can lay down my striving, and my need for order and control and embrace the changing, painted colours of my life. There’s beauty in the mess. Order doesn’t equal perfection. 
Beds don’t have to be made before I can hug my baby, read a book with an eight year old or stop and listen with my whole heart to the cutest six year old in the world. 
Those things are my struggle. This sunset was the reminder of the grace available to stop struggling. 


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