In the past two weeks I have attended someone else’s funeral.
In the past two weeks I have held a six-month-old in my arms and felt his hands in my beard.
In the past two weeks I have sent flowers to people who are grieving.
In the past two weeks I have attended a performance of Mozart’s Requiem and a production of August Wilson’s Fences.
In the past two weeks I have driven a hundred miles to sit with a friend whose parents had both been hospitalized the week before.
In the past two weeks I have watched in six episodes Ken Burns' documentary film on the National Parks.
In the past two weeks I have visited the grave of Henry James.
In the past two weeks I have fried crawfish tails and baked stuffed bell peppers.
In the past two weeks I have sat by an open window on a cool morning and prayed with a verse from the prophet Haggai: “Go up into the hill country and build a house; and I will take pleasure in it, says the Lord.”
I think I am indeed building such a house. And in a way I am living there.
5 comments:
I often enjoy your writing over a cup of coffee in the early morning. This morning, as I head back to work after our Thanksgiving weekend, I will think about the structures I am building...
You have had a meaningful two weeks. I am envious.
Thousands of miles away, a friend is smiling for you and sending up on the blooming hibiscus glory of rising Spring a prayer of deep praise for the center-down fullness of being your weeks seem to have been.
Thank you.
If even half of what feels worthy of record about a two-week period had been planned ahead of time, the record would have all the interest of a calendar dutifully kept.
Thanks, friends, for sometimes being part of the delightfully unplanned and the solidly unexpected.
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