We’re taking grains of sand into our palms and turning them into pearls of remembrance.
The way a bluejay flies from branch to branch beside the road where I take morning walks. As if he is the tour guide leading the way, whistling about the sights.
The way a rabbit hops from hidden brush, turns around to look at me, and skips along as if he picks up the nature tour where the bird leaves off.
The way a flock of Canadian geese fly perfectly spaced over the surface of the lake, as if someone held up a ruler.
The way my son leaves air between the wake and kneeboard while smiling joy, when he used to fall asleep in my arms as a toddler fearful of the boats rumble.
The way a chipmunk scuttles up to our shoes when we stop to look closer at a crowd of lily pads.
The way clams create a spiral sand masterpiece on the bottom of a glassy lake of still water.
The way blueberry pancakes taste better in Canada than they do at home.
When we accept what we cannot explain or understand, we’ve entered the way of faith, each moment a brushstroke of miracle in the mural of life.
And in the very same way the Spirit long ago became manifest in the Body of Christ, the first cabbage rose began to materialize on my (cross stitched) tablecloth. From there I could envision the whole garden. ~The Poisonwood Bible, Barbara Kingsolver