“what are mere mortals that you should think about them, human beings that you should care for them?”
Psalms 8:4 NLT
Just as clear as if I was there, my imagination created the communion of two friends in awe.
I might have been sipping creamy coffee beside her. She would have offered food. It might have been a cracker spread with butter. It may have been just a sliver of lemon blueberry cake. Maybe nothing to eat, only coffee on her back porch.
My friend and I restfully watching her friend’s love offering, a surprise stop by to clean her backyard.
My friend is journaling after a bout of illness that wanted to linger, wanted desperately to break her heart and her spirit.
She told me that writing was helping.
“Yes, yes, I know.” I thought.
The wonder of a white rooster, a strange and sacred visitor has nudged me assuringly,
It’s time to write simply for writing’s sake, time to let sightings lead to thought again and to simply let thoughts become words.
Twice on the way to the country, a cup balanced on the steel railing under the overpass has caught my eye. A cup marked “Big Gulp” and almost full of some sort of dark cola.
I wondered how long it might remain a fixture to curious commuters like me. Would the wind or the over time passing of cars knock it over? Perhaps a big rig would cause the bridge to slightly shake and the motion might vibrate the railing.
Who left the cup there?
Were they walking and someone came along and opened the passenger door? Were they holding a sign and what was their story?
These are the directions my thoughts take me.
Strange?
I choose to call them sacred.
Wonder, I believe, is worship’s closest kin.
Pauses to think about the wonder of being open to wondering.
Back to rooster, a white one. I didn’t know white roosters existed.
My friend and her friend were reminiscing about a man who passed away too soon.
The white rooster appeared. They were surprised but, then not at all.
I walked outside one morning last week. I had noticed the unveiling of day, the distant ribbons of pink.
I nudged the dog and we stepped onto the cool damp grass. I pointed my phone in all sorts of angles then just let it rest in my palm as I watched the pink sky shift and fade.
Trying to capture the full measure of this sky, of beauty, of God’s greatness is too impossible for me, I decided.
Me, in pajamas, disheveled and maybe a hint apathetic, a seeker of grandeur, of sovereignty in my vicinity.
Called closer by the pink I’d never fully capture.
Beauty is never an accident.
Wonder never a waste.
God is everywhere. Allow yourself to notice and keep noticing.
Note to self,
Return to wonder influenced writing rather than writing for notice. It may take a minute. Take your time.
Lisa Anne Tindal 