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Archive for August, 2011

the wind blows

Two nights ago, I wiped the day’s crumbs off the counter and reached for the lights, glancing once more at the kitchen. Clean. Ready for the morning’s crumbs.

I tiptoed towards my room careful not to wake my slumbering family and slipped into a bed already warmed by my husband. And then I began the task of falling asleep. It was late and I had to awake early.

It started with the creaking of the hall door. The wind was pirouetting through our home, pushing into my dreams and knocking at my eyelids. The door became a timpani thudding again and again as the sprinto soprano added the whish and whoosh of a not-quite-lullaby.

In my dreams curtains were flying, books were falling, and we were spinning to Oz and the Tin Man.  Only the cyclone was in our house twirling from room to room.

At some point in the whirling night, I pulled my weary self out into the hallway to fortify the banging door. All I could find in the dark was throw pillows. And so my dreams continued with a slightly muffled percussion.

My alarm greeted me three minutes after I had opened my eyes confirming that the too few hours that I had allotted for sleep had come to an abrupt stop.

I repeated my tiptoeing of the previous evening, which didn’t feel as far away as it should, and set off to dispel what was dream and what was wind.

I picked up the shuffled pillows and opened the door to discover a rainbow of dinner napkins spread the length of my dining room floor. I stood under that rainbow and tried to piece together where they had come from.

I didn’t remember leaving a stack in the dining room. I stepped through to the kitchen and spied an empty napkin holder.

The wind had snuck in through the window and gathered up the napkins with his blue-tipped fingers. He whisked them through the side door, spun them about, bowed, and left them fanned out in a perfect arc. One right after the other. Some bent. Some curled. Some stacked stair-stepped with others.

I stood in wonder.

I thought about our summer. How the coolness of this breeze carried the hints of autumn, the end of our warm, blissful days. How I feel changes blowing and shifting our family.

How in the course of three month a little boy that I know has gone from

this

to this


to this.

My little babe with tousled curls swings his bat. He hits. He cheers. The ball flies. He drops his bat and runs. He knows not where.

And my girl, she runs too, sprinting into second grade.

We’re caught up in this whirling, this forward motion.

And I could pass off these scattered napkins as the aftermath of a peculiar gust that spun counter-clockwise in one room and clockwise in another, drawing tissue up into its vortex and dropping them as it dissipated.

Or I could believe in a purposeful God’s whose fingerprints appear in every aspect of my day. A God who knows where we are spinning to and is laying out our days in a particular pattern.

I choose the latter.

And from where I’m standing now, I see snapshots of this summer spread out like Polaroids in a beautiful arc of memories.

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