Slipped out of bed this Sunday morning before 5am, so as not to wake up my wife. Opened all the windows in our home to take in the cool morning breeze. Fixed some coffee. Went out to sit on our front step until the Sunday Denver Post arrived. There is much to ponder these days.
Just sat there watching the colors of this new day fade from dark blue to brilliant orange (who says God isn't a Bronco's fan...). Took my computer out and punched up on iTunes a way, way, way olde CD of the Century Men's Chorus.
The last cut on the CD is one titled--Holy Ground, a song written by Bill Gaither, way, way back when in the last century. The verses were not sung, just the chorus several times through--100+ men's voices and a full orchestra. Almost heavenly. :-)
For some reason the words of the chorus caught my attention in a new way as dawn was breaking here in our neighborhood:
We are standing on holy ground
For I know that there are angels all around
Let us praise Jesus now
For we are standing in His presence on holy ground
I played the song over several times (quietly, so as not to wake up the neighbors). Sitting there as dawn was breaking, it was a holy moment.
Almost an hour later I heard the familiar "whack," "whack," "whack" of the person driving down the street to throw out the morning paper on each driveway. In the early morning stillness, one can hear those whacks a block away.
Relieving this delivery person, and the neighbors who sleep with their windows open, of one less "whack," I went to the end of our driveway to get handed our paper. That I've never done before.
The "whacker" was a lady of Latin origin, possibly mid-40s, who looked surprised to see me waiting there. Even startled.
As she handed me our bundle of paper in its thin plastic bag, I said, "May I thank you for your diligence to get the paper out on weekends? Thank you for your faithfulness in doing that."
She responded, "I do this seven days a week, and you only get the paper Thursday through Sunday." True.
My response, "Wow, that is diligence to be up so early every day. Again, thank you!"
I detected some slight tears in her weary eyes when she said, "I do this so my children can have a better education than I ever had. This job gets me home when they wake up so that I can get them into their day, and then I go do another part time job while they are in school."
With that she drove on down the street. Whack, whack, whack, the newspapers kept landing with a practiced precision.
However, just as I was sitting on the front step to take a look at the headlines, she came back, got out of her car and walked toward me. "Mister, no one has been up early enough to thank me before. I needed to tell you thank you for doing that."
Tears were in her eyes, and mine, as she drove off through the neighborhood. After several more "whacks" faded into the distance, I sat there with a myriad of thoughts racing through my olde soul.
Could it be that for a few moments this morning the end of our driveway was holy ground?
Could it be that as I sit here on the front step putting these thoughts in this computer that this is holy ground?
Could it be that I need to be more attentive to realizing exactly what holy ground really is as I go through the hours of my days?
Could it be that the sound I hear ruslting through the leaves on the maple tree in our front yard is the sound of angels wings?