On This Gentle Saturday Morning

On this gentle Saturday morning, I settle into my familiar chair on the screened porch, enveloped by the soft symphony of rainwater dripping from the gutters, soffits, and fascia of my home. Each drop falls with a quiet grace, a delicate percussion that harmonizes with the distant splashes of rain kissing the Coosa River. There’s a sacred stillness in this moment—a spiritual undercurrent woven into the ordinary cadence of a rainy day, often unnoticed in our hurried lives.

“Be still, and know that I am God.” —Psalm 46:10

Today, May 10, 2025, marks the tenth Saturday of this tender spring month. From my perch, I watch a white heron glide southwest along the river’s edge, its wings slicing through the misty air. Nearby, gray herons—steady inhabitants of this watery realm—perform their morning ritual, hunting with quiet reverence. In their graceful movements, I sense a silent hymn of praise to the Creator.

“Let everything that has breath praise the Lord.” —Psalm 150:6

Eighty-one days from now, July 30 will dawn—a date etched into the marrow of my soul. That day, years ago, should have been my last. My body bore the unmistakable signs of departure, the final sighs of a life slipping away. Yet, by the boundless mercy of God, it was not my end. What transpired remains a mystery I rarely speak of, for words falter where the divine intervenes. I carry those moments in silence, a sacred weight.

“The Lord is gracious and full of compassion, slow to anger and great in mercy. The Lord preserves all who love Him.” —Psalm 145:8, 20

And just 104 days hence, I’ll mark the sixth anniversary of my open-heart surgery, when a mechanical valve was stitched into the core of me, granting borrowed time. Each tick of that valve is a reminder of fragility and grace, a metronome counting out the beats of a life extended.

“Teach us to number our days, that we may gain a heart of wisdom.” —Psalm 90:12

A northeast breeze stirs now, rustling the leaves of the sycamore trees and gently teasing the muscadine vines that drape my property. The wind, invisible yet undeniable, moves with a quiet authority, animating the world in a dance of creation. Here, on the banks of the Coosa River, cradled by the foothills of the Appalachians, peace settles like dew. This is a holy place, where the soul is beckoned to commune with the Savior, Jesus Christ.

“For since the creation of the world God’s invisible qualities—His eternal power and divine nature—have been clearly seen, being understood from what has been made.”—Romans 1:20

In the hush of this rainy morning, I reflect on the days and weeks just past, sifting through their weight and wonder. Each dawn, as I sit here gazing across the river, I pray for one thing alone: the wisdom and discernment of King Solomon.

“Now give me wisdom and knowledge, that I may go out and come in before this people.” —2 Chronicles 1:10

At this stage of life, the pursuit of worldly things—acquisitions, status, “stuff,” as a friend’s mother used to call it—holds no allure. It’s merely marshland clutter, unneeded and fleeting.

“Do not store up for yourselves treasures on earth... but store up for yourselves treasures in heaven.”—Matthew 6:19–20

I’ve written often of the sunsets behind me, far outnumbering those yet to come. The truth of that settles in my bones. Jesus taught that the body is but a vessel, lifeless without the spirit. The scriptures affirm that when our earthly frame returns to dust, our spirit ascends to God.

“And the dust returns to the ground it came from, and the spirit returns to God who gave it.” —Ecclesiastes 12:7

Within me, that mechanical valve pulses, a finite gift with a finite span. One day, as Saint Augustine mused in The City of God, it will still. And that will be no tragedy.

“I have fought the good fight, I have finished the race, I have kept the faith. Now there is in store for me the crown of righteousness.” —2 Timothy 4:7–8

It will mean I have run the race well, crossed the finish line, and my spirit has returned to its eternal home.