On a quiet morning drive to church, I peek up into the rearview mirror and find two almond-round eyes staring back at me. They are caramel. They are honey. They are the rich, deep color of a cup of undiluted tea. I smile at them because I know what is coming. Below those eyes full of wild and wonderful, a toothy grin spreads wider than the mirror can hold. It’s already tinged with the crookedness of life lived full.
On a warm spring evening, we drive up and down brick-cobbled streets trying to squeeze in for a night’s dinner out. Blocks away, we park and tumble out into the green air of Spring on the horizon. Later, we walk out into the most beautiful sunset over the staggered lines of old factories. We take the slow steps back up and through the spring breeze and fall into our car after a full and well-lived day. My girl slips her hand in mine.
On a barely blue night, my oldest and I stay up to read together. We read about life and change and feelings and being. After a joke and a goofy look, we lose ourselves in belly laughs. The kind with tears that wet dry, world-weary eyes with joy-balm. The kind that bubble up for minutes on end and disrupt any attempt to move on. He laughs like Woody the Woodpecker. I haven’t heard it full and abandoned in too long, it feels.
On a post-time change afternoon, the sunlight cuts through our kitchen in strands so concentrated I want to try to scoop them up. It’s the kind of bright and shiny that heals winter-cold bones. I dice vegetables and watch fragrant steam rise up out of my favorite red dutch oven. Our house is full of joy set to beat driven music. I cut and stir in time, bouyed by the variety of God’s beauty in this world.
Every morning lately, I’ve landed in the same spot in my Bible–Proverbs 15:15. It’s true that when I look at my world through the lens of what I don’t have–of what is heavy for my carrying arms, of what is hard and asks much of me, of what might always be a no, of what is outlined with loss–my table seems scattered with crumbs and tinged with a lack of hope. Scarcity looms.
When I look at my world through the lens of what has already been crafted into my life, there’s not enough room on my table for all of the goodness that drips off like grapes all heavy. It takes looking, yes, seeing clearly. It also takes picking moments up and rubbing them so that I become familiar. It takes letting every goodness-scent roll over me. It takes a quiet attention to the soft down beat and the whistling up beat of each moment.
Even when loss and pain and uncertainty walk woven into my life, I open my eyes and see a feast all piled up and spilling over and forever-full.
And I know Who has prepared it for me.