When Rainbows Hug

A rainbow, it made its glorious arc against western sky, unexpected morning surprise, a beautiful wake up call. A bow of glorious hues, this spectrum of light, multicolored vision that caused breath to hitch and foot to ease up on gas pedal. Early morning fatigue eclipsed by burst of color gracing scenery. Heartbeat pulsed to new rhythm. Doldrum routine outwitted by God's magnificent nature. A breath, a respite, an invitation to pause in the moment. Life is hard, gritty, messy and undone, in need of captivating surprises. When unannounced gifts interrupt the hurriedness, the clutter of it all, I want to say yes all over again. Yes to grace and emphatic no to worry. Whispering a forever and a day praise, I felt it once again, this awe and gratitude, spilling over into beginning of work day. Thank you! This has to be the answer, to embrace every rainbow, each moment of splendid miracle, each gift as if it might be last. In the words of John Calvin, "There is not one blade of grass, there is no color in this world that is not intended to make us rejoice." A rainbow, a dog's flying fur, a child's first wobbly steps, favorite song that causes voice to pitch loud with wild abandon. I like to think that somewhere over that rainbow, our beautiful God watched with eager anticipation, with glee and gladness as the early morning spectacle of moisture, light and color adorned His landscape. And we rushing humans who stilled in the moment, mouths smiling awesome, with childlike innocence proclaiming our praise. A cacophony of grateful living people. Somewhere over that rainbow He must know, must surely understand, sometimes, all it takes is one unexpected, one stunning display of beautiful. To lift a head up in song, to brush the shoulder of the wounded, to dry a mother's tired eyes. And on that day, driving in my car, I felt that hug once again, and it was warm and it was free.

How To Sink Pride

A physical therapist recently suggested I try aqua jogging as a form of exercise. "It's better than swimming in your condition," he advised. The corner of my mouth twitched. He Googled a website, showed me gear I could purchase. Fear snaked up my spine. But I am a runner! In my heart, truly! The sheet of paper he handed me read, "The Power of Water," and "How it Works," for the "AquaJogger official website," all captioned in aqua-colored blue font. I left his office that day knowing he had a good idea, that my running days were long gone, this back of mine still fired-hot, but I wasn't ready to surrender. The idea of clamping on a flotation belt, getting my hair wet, or worse, donning a bathing cap caused sweat to pool on upper lip. Memories propelled me back to the sixties. To swim lessons at the YMCA,  and the dreaded deep end. Where I refused to dive in like the cute instructor who had a crush on my older sister encouraged, instead I crept to the back of the line, again and again and again. I liked the water. I abhorred the deep end. Now in my fifties, there is a wiser piece of me that knows exactly when to raise those palms in total acquiescence. Like when husband trims favorite bush and says he made pretty, I count missing buds for this year's bounty, but quickly fix a smile on surprised face and squeeze out a thank you. Taking baby steps, I surveyed the website he suggested, watched a You-Tube video and understood immediately that I was about to dip my toes in holy water. I am not in charge and this is my best bet for now, and isn't surrendering my pride a good idea? Samuel Rutherford wrote: "Humility is a strange flower; it grows best in winter weather and under storms of affliction." With clear water lapping around shoulders, I pumped arms and legs, running in the deeper part, and one more chunk of pride slipped from heart, landing on bottom of pool, I could see it all crumbling. And with each pump of arms, humming an old hymn, pieces of pride disintegrated, becoming invisible under weight of chlorinated water. Lifting knees toward chest, I practiced the crazy art of sinking my own pride. They will soar on wings like eagles: they will run and not grow weary, they will walk and not be faint. And they will sing in gym pools wearing lime-green float belts, humming favorite songs, leaning ever so slightly forward, each virgin breath capturing yet another phenomenal gift.

Those Hands

"Broken," brown-haired boy uttered. "Broken, broke." How did all of those break? Scattered on the cement, various pastel-colored chalk, split in two, and I watched as grandson cracked another in half, dropping it to the ground. And he pointed to the chalk, as if the pieces could mend themselves, supernaturally caulked and made right again.

 

Why don't you play with them, draw a picture, make pretty?

 

When things are cracked, broken and messy, maybe it's the simple things that shape the heart.

Bend down amidst the undone, the cluttered imperfection, trusting that at some point, someone else will help pick up the pieces and make right.

Inch out one more ounce of trust, one more faltering step,one more choice and wait...

And those hands, those hands you fear have dropped you down rough, leaving you disordered, undone. Those hands that shaped the world, they hold you still, gently, tenderly, making pretty out of suffering, coloring scars with delicate shades of Grace.