It's a beautiful Sunday morning. The word beautiful doesn't even do it justice. Glorious is maybe a better descriptor. The sky is blueblueblue, the breeze is just cool enough, the sun just warm enough, the wasps just distant enough, the birds just tweety enough. Everything is in sync. This, I think, is what many people find in church on a Sunday morning… this harmony, this feeling of belonging.
The air is the pulpit, offering a message of traveling cars, childhood screeches, buzzing insects, music off in the distance, neighbors chatting through too-close fences – all the inherent pieces of a story that doesn't have to be told because everyone knows it so well. And yet, hearing the tale again is not an annoyance, but a reminder of things easily forgotten, things always known, things that get lost in the everyday.
So this is, obviously, me getting a little crazy as I sit on my back porch, pretending it's spring, pretending my husband isn't in the house on a cleaning rampage, pretending I have nothing else I should be doing. This is me hatching big plans that will probably fade away by the routine of the evening. This is me dreaming big dreams that will get written on scraps of paper that will then get swept off the kitchen counter in a frenzy of Seventh Generation sprays and gels.
This is me hoping I'm wrong about the sweeping away of the big plans and big dreams. Hoping that something sneaks through the shining gloriousness and makes its way into the fog of everyday. Like capturing fireflies in a mason jar to light up your room at night, I wish I could capture 12:19 pm on a Sunday in early Texas springtime. Just keep it on my desk, in my purse, in my pocket, around my neck, a little bit of loveliness always there to brighten everything else.