Not long after my last post, a couple of really odd things happened. First, a bird flew into my house through an open sliding glass door. I love fresh air and sunshine so much that doors and windows are often open, and I don't own a curtain. This isn't the first time a bird has made an unexpected appearance, either. I've had the odd sparrow in to visit a couple of times, and one particularly memorable occasion we hosted a lovely hummingbird. I remember well when he crashed violently into a wall, and fearing the worst, I gently gathered him up under a dish towel. We took him out, and something about the wind or the trees excited him right there in my hands. I felt the beating of his wings against my fingers for an instant, and then he was airborne and out of sight.
It doesn't matter how often a wild flying thing enters my home, it's always an occasion for wonder and laughter. This time I spotted the nondescript brownish-gray bird sitting on my lamp right in the livingroom. As soon as I moved closer, he took off for the kitchen, and I had to laugh when he landed on the microwave. It's just an odd, but (may I suggest) joyful thing to see. We soon shooed the fellow on his way, but there were smiles all around. Joy. Simple. Pure. Unexpected.
A couple of hours later, I received an unexpected call from an unexpected location. A young man we know, 20 years old, is serving in the Marines in Iraq. I'm not happy that he's there, that evil and danger exist in the world, but I am very proud of him and his abilities to confront it. He had a strict but loving Christian upbringing, and I have always had every confidence that he would do well anywhere he went. His picture is in my wallet and on my fridge. So there we were, he on his side of the world and me on mine, sharing news. But more importantly, we connected in a way only God can arrange. You see, he lost a buddy to a grenade on Dec. 21. "We're not all coming home," he said, and I could hear the tears he was holding back. We talked for awhile about that, and then he asked about me and my family. Once he heard about my mom's cancer diagnosis, I could hear the concern in his voice. "Concern" doesn't really describe it ... maybe "purpose" or dare I say "enthusiasm." Not enthusiasm for the disease, but enthusiasm for the prayer work ahead. It was something meaningful to occupy the hours while he's standing guard or filling out paperwork on the night shift. So there we were -- he in the middle of his night, me in the middle of my day, he on his side of the planet and me on mine, and we were so close that we touched. Not in a physical, worldly way, but in a heavenly way. I know that his prayers will find me, and mine will find him. And when I hung up the phone, do you know what I felt? Joy.
2 comments:
Here's one: Two nights ago the phone rang and it was Ninny. She said she heard sirens and looked out the window to see the flashing lights of an ambulance in Art's driveway.
I can't describe the extreme sadness that I felt to think that Art might have passed away alone in that dark house. I haven't been able to take him shopping lately and I felt terrible about that.
Well, guess what? It turns out that there were no flashing lights after all and the old fellow seems to be in good health. Talk about joy!
Yay!
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