You beckon me to cast my cares, but I hold them to me like cherished memories.
You tell me to rest, but I busy myself in absent-minded worry.
You made the world, the grass, the trees, the air, the leaves.
And I string words together, trying to capture Your creativity.
Maybe it’s that You want me to sit beneath a tree.
To marvel at Your world, to feel the grass, to breathe in autumn.
Maybe it’s that You renew me when I stop striving for personal rejuvenation.
Maybe it’s enough to slow down enough to hear Your peace.