This is the Air I Breathe

It’s early July and the sun is shining outside, with a brisk breeze stirring up the trees and bending the flowers. I’m sitting inside, in a cool interior room, wearing, among other items of apparel, a cardigan and wool socks. In July.

I grew up in southern California, where sockless sandals were de rigueur all summer long. Where tank tops and shorts exposed the skin to the warm sea breezes in July. I have to say that, even after all these years, I still miss that sense of summertime freedom.

However, when I step outside my back door and inhale deeply, I catch the fragrance of the flowers, or sometimes of the farm, but either way I catch natural fragrances. When the wind wafts into my face I sense its cleanliness and purity. 

When I have an appointment in town, I don’t need to factor in time of day with its probable traffic congestion. I rarely sit in a car idling in a traffic jam, where I would be breathing in all sorts of noxious fumes. 

The air may be cool, but it is clear. I sense that my lungs may be pink rather than black. 

All over the world, people are on the move. Migrating because of conflict or economic disasters, which makes their migration essential. But even in the developed nations, indigenous populations are migrating to the cities, to join the urban sprawl and breathe deep of the polluted air. Seeking a better life. The good life.

What is the good life? Jesus said that he came so that we would enjoy fullness of life. So just what is that, and how does Jesus coming facilitate or enable it to happen? Does it mean moving to clump together with others in the crowded cities of our time?

It has nothing to do with where we live.

Because Jesus lived and died for me, I can be filled with his Holy Spirit who, when he moves into my life, brings a deep inner peace and contentment and a sense of safety and fulfilment. I no longer need to chase after elusive dreams which draw me to pile into cities congested with people and fumes and negative energy and crime. 

I can step outside my door, wherever it is, and breathe deep. And revel in the moment of just being. Wool socks or none.

The Wrong Socks

We went to a funeral yesterday, for a popular doctor in our town. Because he had been an elder in the church, the current session met to pray before the service, and were told that seats were saved for us as the attendance was expected to be large.

I’d spent the  morning sniffling with an incipient cold, so I dressed warmly in jumper and scarf, long black wool coat, wool trousers and socks, and sensible shoes for negotiating grass in the cemetery.

We filed into the church and were ushered to the rows of choir chairs. I was aghast to realize that because of the way the seats had been filled, only the front row remained and we duly took our seats there, facing the congregation!

I felt like we were on show. Self-consciously I began to mentally check out how I looked. I’d thought I’d be anonymous in a pew, where my sniffles and warm clothing would go unnoticed. Here I was in the front row ... and then I remembered my socks!

While very warm, my socks were also very light grey and contrasting with my dark grey trousers and black shoes. I quickly uncrossed my legs, hoping to lengthen my trouser legs so that the socks would be less visible.

And then there was my nose. Red and running. I had to sniffle silently into a damp hanky. Everyone probably thought I was a little too emotional.

Mental note. Next time I go to a funeral, I wear dark socks.