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| I met a little boy this summer named Peyton. Five hours after meeting him, he packed his tiny suitcase and flew home to his mother and father. Peyton was an eight year old, with tousled brown hair and quiet eyes. It took a lot of coercion to get Peyton to even look up me; he was curled up at the foot of the stairs, longing to go home. For a moment we talked of great things. He lives on a farm, and three horses belong to him: Dakota, Cheyenne, and Spirit. Once, he fell over a fence. He has two dogs whose names I can't recollect at the moment, and he loves his mother. When I inquired about her, he looked up with great love and admiration and let me know that she has blonde hair....with a little brown in it. She has blue eyes, and she takes him everywhere. Futhermore, their favorite place to go is Peter Piper's Pizza. He prefers cheese over pepperoni. Peyton knew where he came from, and he longed to return. He only had one day left, but he missed his home. Am I not this same way? So often, I stand on this earth and long to rest in eternity. This world is not my home; however, I am here. Although I feel a little like Peyton right now, sitting on those stairs, talking to strangers, wishing I were in the presence of God, I will stay. And though I am not even sure what tomorrow will look like or what I will be doing next year. I must believe that our great God has sent me. He has placed me, and He is loving me through it. My friend Carissa bought me a "fashion tie dye" kit. Tight, I know. So....maybe that's one thing I do know about tomorrow.... | | |
| Imagine walking into a Chinese restaraunt, the kind with a coy pond, various paper dragons hanging from the ceiling, and dinner mints in a little cup next to the register. Stand in the foyer and smell the fish pond, get a good wiff. The odor is not pleasant, dead goldfish and cat food from a can. Don't forget this stench. Now, on North Greenville's campus there are several trees in bloom. Their blossoms are the color of french vanilla ice cream, and every inch of these particular tree's branches are wrapped in sleeves of tiny oval shaped petals. Their appearance is really quite lovely -- and deceptive. Remember the stench of the slaughtered fish cat food mixture. Yes, that's what these trees smell like. Contrary to the way they look, the way they smell is rather repulsive. I say all this to ask one question: did trees smell bad before the fall? Did Eve kind of like that smell? Did she snap pieces off of the branches and decorate her home with the deadfishcatfood blossom? Did anything smell strange or sour before the fall? By fall, I mean the fall of man in Eden, not the season. I know this is trite and childish, but a woman on the free transit system in Chatanooga told me I had childlike ways, and I've decided to be ok with that. This is a question I would have asked two years ago, and when it danced into my brain yesterday, I was pleasantly surprised by it. I like banana popsicles.
I like backpacks.
It's ok to ask questions, and it's ok to smile. | | |
| Mom and Dad, I miss you. This weekend while in Newberry I stayed with a family that recently encounted a tragedy unknown to me. The woman spoke very few words and there was a distance in her eyes that spoke of pain or lose. Her husband lovingly became her voice, talking about her success while she was young. A photographer, she had taught him about composition, about light. Their granddaughter called them Nana and Gramps. While sitting in the back seat of their sedan I quietly cried. Tears always make people uncomfortable. Nana and Gramps are but memories now, and though I'd like to believe I have accepted that, I have not. Perhaps I never will. The pain of missing someone is found in the spaces they leave in your life. Spaces that cannot be jumped over or covered up, but spaces that you must walk around and sometimes walk through. I told their granddaughter that she should "never take her nana for granted" and that she "must always love her and tell her." Later, she painted my finger nails the color of Barbie. I can't recall the exact name of the polish, but I'm sure that Barbie herself created it. Uneven and patchy, my finger nails became a work of art. Proud simply because she missed my skin, the little girl smiled at her work. Later in the weekend, I met a lady at Wendy's named Justina. She is 92 years old. She sat in the back corner with her back facing a large window. While drinking coffee and eating a cheeseburger she told me that she is lonely. She is thinking about buying a dog. A year after her first husband died, she married another man to whom she was married for thirty six years. She never cared for shorthand and she visits her sister in the assisted living home when she can. Her sister is 95. Nobody needs to be a stranger, nobody deserves loneliness.
Even if the things that unite us are pain and loneliness, perhaps we'll find joy and love through revealing our own sorrows with one another. I saw 27 dresses. I cried at the end. Pitiful. P.S. As I was writing this I was listening to Ray LaMontagne's album "Till the Sun Turns Black." These are his lyrics to "Within You." War is not the answer
The answer is within you
War is not the answer
The answer is within you
Love
Love
Love
Love love | | |
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