The sun is an annoying place right now, finding its way through the small square window off to my upper left, shining straight into my eye. Instead of moving, I'll type with one eye closed. Or is it one eye open? Is that the same as asking if the glass is half full or half empty?
This morning, I walked out back along the line of my yard where the green grass stops and the long grass starts—where man-made meets God-made. That's the place where the deer show up like clockwork, day after day, to feed and, it often seems, to play. A couple of nights ago, I caught a herd of them running around in circles in a big field just down the street at dusk. It was a pure delight to watch them go.
If I'm up at 5 o'clock, some mornings, I have watched a big red fox dash across the yard headed for who knows where. This is my favorite hour of the day—the one where the sun rises into a show different from the day before or what it will be the next day. Think about it—no two sunrises, sunsets, or the hours in between will ever be the same.
Over the past thirty days, the trees have emptied, the temperatures have dropped, and the days are getting shorter. Winter is on deck. There is a sense of preparation out there. The animals are moving around with more resolve. They are preparing for what is to come. I watch nature run its inevitable course and peer inside. Inside the walls of my home, twinkly lights are strung so when four thirty hits, there is soft light instead of dark corners. Inside my heart, tucked away are reminders of tender mercies like sunrises, the first feel of cupping your hands around a warm cup of coffee, long talks with friends who remind you who you are, my son's deep dimples, my daughter's sweet voice, and a painting outside every day that reminds that there is God who holds all of this together so l don't have to.
In the past thirty days, I have seen beauty again. With both eyes open—perhaps it's because I am acutely aware of how deeply I ache and how beauty has always been a reminder that this place is not our home. Beauty lifts my eyes, fills my soul, and whispers in a still, small, steady voice, "I see you; you are not alone."
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