Blasting through my days, I’m inclined to moving fast.

Too fast.

Sadly, this has been something I prided myself in. [Embarrassed face]

I can multitask my long, daily list with deft speed and furious efficiency.

Racing the clock as if at the end of the day all the lights and bells and cheers will go off and I’ll be proclaimed, 

“THE WINNER!

She DID it!  Worlds fastest woman just accomplished EVERYTHING, and in record time!”

The game show host hands me a yard wide check for 1 billion dollars.

I feel so good.

sigh

But do I?

Speed has it’s price.  Moving at that pitch usually leaves a trail behind me - a charred path left in the wake of a ground missile’s furry, but the scars I leave aren’t quickly seen.

As least not to a fast moving girl.

Dashing through my day at a blistering pace I miss noticing that I’ve left people around me with little burn marks.

Overlooked.

Forgotten.

Missed.

Left behind.

Unheard.

It usually shows up in their eyes.

Slowing a bit more reveals how speed affects my own eyes, unable to focus on things near me.

While in a car on the freeway you can only glimpse things just outside your window to the left or right.  Details are blurred and clarity is reserved for what’s in front of you.

In contrast, moving slowly gifts my eyes with details and beauty, more like a walk through a forest or along a sea shore.

Slow allows me

to notice

to hear

to touch

to taste

to contemplate.

These aren’t possible when I’m doing fast.

I find this engagement of my senses as I progress unhurriedly, begins to ground me. 

It connects me to deeper awareness of God, myself and my people.

Moving slowly and with intention tethers me to my humanity.

It draws me back from the cultural conveyor belt tugging me towards becoming a machine, (or a game show contestant). Performance is king in both of those models.

My exit from the speed trap is still an exercise of resolve.

Am I getting better because I’m getting older?  Is gravity or wisdom behind my deceleration? 

Probably both.

Adopting our daughter with special needs has forced some brake taps and continually regulates my speed. 

I confess I’ve had to work through times of resentment for the drag on my tempo and only in the slowing have seen the gift she is to me. 

How ironic - sad really - that someone society labels “slow” is often viewed in a negative light. 

She’s never in a hurry.

Fast doesn’t exist in her body or mind.

Yet she is more in step with God’s pace, never missing a pinky-purple sky, a rainbow, or noticing someone with a tear.

Oh Father!  You knew what it would take to pull this girl off the game show circuit into an authentic life marked by slower living.  

Hewn with tools that look like people, or traffic, or an aging body. 

Etched against my grain of speed and performance.

I desire to ease deeper into Your pace and become more human each day.

In slowing, help my eyes rest on individual glories.

Attune my ears to hear Your songs, 

and my mouth to taste Your goodness, 

and my skin to feel Your touch.

Thank You for all the inconvenient ways You slow me back to walking alongside You.