I didn’t mean to hear it, see it, know it; in fact I just stumbled upon it. Mindlessly painting limes and lemons on my leg as I lay in the grass outside my dorm and then it was there, words I myself had scribed, “even here” so casually scrawled next to the green and yellow swirls. I payed no mind to it at first. It was just a subconscious poetic grouping of words paired with doodles that would later wash off in the shower.
Then a friend asked my thoughts on this next season in Romania and as I started to speak, this mindset of even here laced its way into every word I spoke. I didn’t say anything miraculous, in fact I simply spoke of the delight I had found in sitting still, watching people walk to and fro during exam week, and observing parents helping their children move out for the summer. I spoke of the mundane and then my eyes opened.
Breathe in, breathe out. Even here.
Woven into the grass, scrawled across coffee shop beams, streaked across the sunset sky. Even here.
It’s this whispered invitation to sit, to notice, and to welcome God close in all. It’s an invitation to come alive again. It’s a reintroduction, an awakening, a new state of being.
And I can’t ignore it. In fact I get giddy to find it, to find Him. In the moments I try to figure it all out, find myself zoning out, or start to miss the life so present even here – I look up and it’s like He has painted it everywhere.
These two words have changed how I approach conversation, sit in coffee shops, read His word, think of future spaces of living, and tell others of what God is doing. There is a peace in me that is only of the Lord. Because finally it’s not about what I will be doing or what I could be doing in future moments. It’s just about being; being in a different state or country, with different people, in different moments. It’s about operating from the consistency of Christ and not from the consistency or inconsistency of self, places of residence, or those around me.
It’s a conscious choice of simplicity, of intentionality, of communing with my King even here. It’s marking these mundane moments with majesty, living from the wild reality of my being reconciled to a perfect creator even here. It’s laying in the grass staring at the sky, watching people pass by, and still finding Him here.
Going to Romania may be more moments of these. It might not be full of miracles and visions and healings and declarations of purpose. It might just look like these mundane moments of being.
And honestly? This gets me excited. The peace I have found in not knowing how to articulate the future, where I could live, or even what God is teaching me has been priceless. It’s this precious conversation beyond even these two words of “even here” that is only known between me and my Creator and for once I don’t care to share it, to fashion it to others’ understanding, or to fully unpack it every time someone asks about the next step.
It’s made me pause and be led by the Holy Spirit. It’s brought a true spirit of waiting, resting, and asking where He wants me to go and what He wants me to say. It’s uncovered a new aspect of abiding that I didn’t understand before. It’s demanded a shedding of carrying others’ expectations, my own wonderings, and the lies that this way of life is aimless and void of fruit. It’s made me live less for the product and more for the process, for people, with purpose. It’s given me kingdom eyes and let me tell you, it’s here.
Just look around. Look up. He’s waiting.
‘Lord, my heart is meek before you. I don’t consider myself better than others. I’m content to not pursue matters that are over my head— such as your complex mysteries and wonders— that I’m not yet ready to understand. I am humbled and quieted in your presence. Like a contented child who rests on its mother’s lap, I’m your resting child and my soul is content in you.’
Psalms 131:1-2 TPT