Autumn morning, eyes trained through windows to the shadow show on tree trunks, crayon box colors of Fall falling through space from now visible branches. Creator comes to mind, how He carries us, colors us, covers us with His power, the Tree the strength, raising us Heavenward.
Sap is invisible, pulsing like a sticky river, nourishment in its wake. All I see is cottonwood, maple, and rarely wonder at their strength, never stop to remark, "would you look at the energy feeding those trees!?" Likewise we fuss and worry that God may not be at work while we grow our leaf-filled days, falling we think, and wonder 'where is He? why isn't He doing something?' And all the time His constant reliable reach pushes up and out, earthborne sap that cannot be stopped, no matter how our lives fall out.
There's a lot one can say about the power of being quiet (yes, I see the irony). When listening forefronts the mind other senses muscle their way into place (the ears above all) take in the not-words simply song, hum and tone in counterpoint. No addition necessary; I am mute, yet the Word bursts alive, verse and chorus rise without me. The truth needs no help to stand. Even when I'm not singing even if I'm not yes-ing it. Sometimes you don't get an amen.