artists

It was the way the sun shone- the air golden all around. Or perhaps the way the tree stood- full dressed in green. Together they painted a masterpiece on the sidewalk and she saw it. 

I've always wondered the purpose of the little paths at the local shopping center, clean, cement-lined with lush grass and shrubs with tidy mulch skirts. They go nowhere in particular, just white little trails in between parking spaces. A burst of park like charm- all 500 feet of it. We took a stroll down that path today.

I parked our car in those spaces facing green- with purpose. My little companion suffered the ill affects of paper doll clothes making while our auto was in motion. I reminded her that it always causes discomfort. "But I just love making crafts," she said sadly and in wonderment that such projects could cause such distress to her body. 

We exited the car and made our way to the lush grass. Sitting down  together I held her on my lap and we breathed. And as the moments passed, I watched her face; pale cheeks returned to color and dull eyes brightened. It was then that she saw it- the pavement.

"A path!" she cried and jumped to her feet."Come with me on a walk!"

I hesitated, my list heavy in my pocket, She danced around and the moment beckoned all of me. A little hand slipped into mine and we walked; around the bird poop stains - I told her stories. Her laughter mingled with the honeyed air and I drank in the richness of this, here, now. 

We walked to one side and turned around. Nearly to the end of our destination-less path, we were to pass a tree- its shadow stretched across the white trail ahead. "Let's play a game,"she said all of a sudden her eyes looking down. "Only step on the light."

I had missed it, the bits of light that wove their way through the leaves and painted gold on the pavement. Grey and gold together as if splashed there. I marveled. How did I miss the radiance, see only shadow?  I stopped for a moment, my breath caught in my throat, and she tugged my arm. "Come on, mama."

We hopped across- our toes touching light. I felt it- a holy moment- where grace surrounds and life dissolves and all there is- this. The presence of God on the sidewalk in the gold tinted shade of a spring dressed tree. 

the story

The same story so many times- different but the same. It all begins, innocently enough, in a bathroom stall. And as I prepare to, well, take a seat, things begin to change. The crack between the door and frame begins to widen and then the door is no longer. And as I desperately try to figure out how to escape my predicament the scene transforms into a solitary toilet with me on it. IN A PUBLIC PLACE. And always a busy public place. And always the panic of the trapped.

And there is laughter. And there is shame. And I wake up but I can't escape it. 

Where was the story that wrote this one? A long yesterday ago tale rewritten in modern day English. Nightly showings available on the back of my closed eye lids.    

Laugh away, but it tortures me.

Not far from that story is the real day to day adventure. The quest to accomplish life without shame or fear or doubt. 

In my small sphere, I find comfort. 

The days of mothering and schooling, a gift. My husband speaks love to me- sweet words of life and goodness  I hold them close. The familiar faces of family; kindly and generous. Grateful for friends- I do not seek out companionship but welcome small gatherings with surprised joy. 

I fight to declare purpose. My purpose. God's purpose for my existence on this big round planet. The reason He fills my lungs with breath.  

But what if they laugh? 

Like the servants in the parable of Matthew 25, talents have been entrusted to my care. The end of the story is a reckoning, not of the handling but of the harvest  The currency of gifts- designed to multiply.