Every morning, often before sunrise, I enter my little study to read, think, write and pray. Here in this little cubicle, only 10x12 feet, cluttered with books, mementoes, photos, carvings, icons, notebooks, filing cabinets, a really comfortable recliner and my grandmother’s rocking chair, I am visited. Here in this little space I encounter the world—past and present—through the Bible and books about the Bible and books about what other people through the long centuries have thought about the Bible and what people are saying about the Bible today. Here I encounter the world—past and present—through reading history and the day’s news headlines. Here I encounter the world—past and present—through many friends I never met in person, those I have known in years gone by, and those I know now. They visit me and speak to me through my remembrance of them, books, Emails, and Facebook posts.
Here, in this little room, I ponder many things. I think of those I know and love. I think about my brothers and sisters around the world. I think about the world situation, our government, our national issues and problems. I think about those persons I know who are experiencing crippling difficulties. I think of those who are sick, who suffer, and who grieve. I think of many things. Here in my study I encounter the world as it was, the world as it is, and finally, the world as it is meant to be. Through reading and thinking I am visited by all those I know and those I do not know who are suffering, striving, seeking, hoping, wanting, and sorrowing.
Out of this very real encounter with the world—past and present—I write. I write almost every day about whatever comes to mind out of my thinking and reading. Whatever I write, no matter what the topic, comes from the Bible (not in proof texts or in sermon form, but from what I have “heard” from my reading of the biblical message) and from my pondering. This writing is the blog, “While It Is Day.” (A blog is “a regularly updated web page that is written in an informal or conversational style.”)
Lastly, here in this little cubicle, sometimes sitting at my desk, sometimes sitting in my grandmother’s rocking chair, and sometimes sitting in that comfortable recliner, I pray. I pray for the world I have just met. I pray about the issues and problems that I have thought about. I pray for those persons I know and those I do not know. I pray for the children of Yemen and the children in captivity on our own border. I pray to an inscrutable One who I believe participates in this world—past and present—to One who wants nothing more than for us to become more fully human—a people lost, but now found, a people connected to “Love at the heart of things.”