Just Before Falling Asleep

As I lay down on the expensive sheets (they make such a wonderful difference with their silky-firm texture and sense of strength, holding me firm, not sagging like the cheap ones do), I consciously collect my thoughts. I want pleasant dreams. My mind will run off into all kinds of nasty directions once I'm sleeping. I ease into position, indulging in laying on my side--something I can't do for long since it will cause pain in my arms, shoulders and even feet. The silence of my room isn't perfect--I hear the low hiss of tires going by out on the street. It's dark--we have heavy curtains closed over the five windows of our room. And it smells nice, too, with the vanilla scent of a candle in the air. But most  important--I direct my thinking towards God in gratitude. I refuse to reflect on the day. It's over. There's nothing more I can do. Instead, I turn my thoughts to thankfulness for God--just God--that He is there, and He knows me. I lay down as his thankful child. I lay down knowing that he cares for me. That I cannot take a good night's sleep for granted. That if I turn my thoughts to the God of the universe in humility, I will go off to sleep in a better state of mind than if I just ignore him and drift into unconsciousness. I'm so daring as to say I love him. Soon enough, conscious praise and thankfulness turns into sleep.

In Praise of You

You like lilies that smell, but not daisies. You love little children, but well behaved.

You'll get a cup of water for the lady in the wheelchair.

You love snow, but not after March. You're afraid of slipping, so you wear spikes and go out anyway.

You like the mountains. And you like the seaside. Just like me.

You stay awake, worrying about your daughter. She's 28 and in Dallas. And you'd do anything for her still.

You spit out the skins of apples as you eat them. But you eat two of them with cinnamon every night.

You sing like a child to any tune you hear, mangling it with made-up words that make us laugh.

Your posture is upright and perfect. Except when you've been fasting all day because your stomach can't take the pain of eating. Then I need to help you down the street as you get weak. You quietly endure without complaint.

You'll dance at a wedding, and cry at a funeral.

Every day, your friends celebrate you as you post beauty on Facebook.

Because those flowers are a perfect reflection of you. Simple. Pure. Beautiful.

Bar

Once again, he pushes open the door to the cathedral of O'Brien's Pub. He takes his place on the pew--the stool where he normally sits when there's room. The smell of beer in the air brings calm and peace to his mind as he begins to shed the annoyances of the day's customers at work. The dark saloon's gentle light perfectly soothes him as the happy chatter of complaints about the baseball team's demise direct the conversations with purpose. As he eases onto the stool, he orders his first pint of ale. His bar friends acknowledge him as one of the regular members of this congregation. This pub does not have TVs saturating the crowd with sports. These are traditional Irish drinkers who shun the distractions in favor of the whole point of a pub: quality, vigorous conversation. The words flow easily from each extroverted person as they each take their turn pontificating life's deeper insights. His mood improves as the words start to flow, made all the easier by the smooth swallow of rich amber ale into his belly.

Rainy Wedding

Everyone wants perfect weather for a wedding. Instead, it's a cool, rainy October Saturday on the Cape. The clouds blanket the day with  a covering of drink after a long, dry September, leaving ground and trees thirsty. The cool eases the land into the coming sleep of winter, calming everything down after the frantic growth and competition of summer. The sweetness of balsam needles perfumes the air mixed with salt from the sea. The occasional spits of water from the sky wet the ground with mist. Under this covering, like the cloud over Israel in the wilderness, God blesses the gathering with the shelter of his provision. The wedding seals the future of a young man and woman beginning a new life together. The rainy day showers God's mercies on their hair, tuxedo, white dress, and smiling faces. Drops of grace fall without invitation, even unwanted. But it's God's perfect weather for this new day.

October

Now October, the air refuses to retreat to coolness, instead wrapping everything in warm dampness that accelerates growth while maples and oaks insist in draining green from their leaves, leaving behind orange and red. We're acutely aware of weather changes this time of year. My appetite changes, looking forward to pumpkin spice beer, apple pies, and the overflow of summer produce that the farm stands heap out on their tables: dark red, ripe tomatoes, yellow squashes, 2nd crop sweet corn, potatoes, pumpkins, string beans. And smooth, hard, crisp apples that snap when you bite them. The smell of the air is pungent, not like the sweetness of July, even though the daytime temperatures are the same. It's a false warmth that will flee at the slightest breath of coolness from the North. A necessary change that kills disease, insects, and sends animals into hibernation for a rest. And we dress warmer, getting security from our sweaters, blankets, heaters, closed doors. But not yet. It's still October and no one wants to surrender to Winter. We want to play and celebrate the harvest. Even with supermarkets bringing in produce 12 months a year. We still know the difference. October, our harvest, is real.