The Porch of His Presence

Rocking Chair Tales: Tilly the Turtle and the Gift of Slowness

(Told in the style of Mother West Wind)

One warm morning in late April, just as the dew was beginning to lift from the blades of grass, the porch stirred. Goldie the Goldfinch had been keeping watch from the sugar maple all week, chirping softly and scanning the garden path with expectation.

“She’s coming,” whispered Goldie, more to herself than to anyone else.

The old Rocker creaked once in agreement.
“She always does.”

Then, from the edge of the wild patch near the cherry tree, a rustle. Not hurried. Not loud. Just the steady parting of grass and leaves as something ancient made her way forward.

Tilly the Turtle had arrived.

With a shell like a patchwork quilt of years and eyes soft with knowing, she slowly ambled into view. Each step was deliberate. Each pause, purposeful. She made no noise, yet her presence quieted the porch more deeply than silence.

“Well now,” said Old Rocker with a warm groan, “it’s good to see you, Tilly.”

Tilly blinked, lifting her wrinkled head to meet the voice.
“It’s good to be seen,” she said, her voice low and rich like earth after rain.

The animals gathered—Goldie flitted down to the railing, Alfie the Squirrel peeked from the branches, and even a few ants paused their work. Everyone knew: when Tilly came, wisdom came walking.

“Tell us, Tilly,” Goldie asked, her feathers bright with curiosity. “Where have you been this time?”

“Oh, here and there,” Tilly replied, settling slowly beneath the softest patch of sunlight.
“I spent some time near the brook, watched the stars from the old mossy log, and slept beneath a violet sky.”

“But you always return to the porch,” said the Old Rocker.

Tilly smiled—or at least, the turtle’s version of a smile.
“Because the porch waits. It doesn’t rush. It holds space. And sometimes, that’s the holiest thing there is.”

A hush fell. Even the wind stilled to listen.

“You all flit and scurry and scamper,” Tilly went on, kindly. “And that’s just fine. But don’t forget to sit. To let the day unfold like a petal. To remember that God is never in a hurry—and neither are the things that last.”

The breeze stirred again, gently this time, as if in agreement.

And so they stayed—the little porch fellowship—breathing in the stillness that Tilly carried with her like a shell. There were no grand speeches, no loud lessons. Just the steady rhythm of presence… and the gentle truth that slowness is not emptiness, but invitation.

When the sun reached the porch steps, Tilly rose and began her slow journey across the yard once more.

“She never stays long,” whispered Goldie.

“No,” said Old Rocker,
“but what she leaves behind stays with us for a very long time.”