Happy Thanksgiving Monday!

I have to start by thanking you all so very much for your lovely comments of congratulation on my book publication a couple of weeks ago. I am most encouraged. You’re kind comments are so heartening! I love having friends to share the festivities of book release celebrations.

Which brings me to the festivity bit. Seeing as Read for the Heart is coming out at Christmas and all, I decided its only fitting to offer it at a Christmas special. So, if you happen to know anyone who would enjoy a foray into the world of literature, then hop on over to the Storyformed Project and get them a signed copy of my book. Your brand spanking new, hot-off-the-press first edition of the book will also come with a lovely Christmas card and a printed quote on the glories of reading, just for fun.

This is also my chance to very informally introduce you to the new site I’ll be running. I’ll still be posting here, but I’m setting up a sort of online literary world over at a new blog site called The Storyformed Project. It will be an ongoing blog conversation on books old and new (and for young and old), writing, words, anything literary at all. There will be reviews, quotes, research, links, and all things literary I can imagine.  It will also be the hub of the speaking, teaching (creative-writing, English, and “Inklings” classes), and literary tours (dates posted soon!) I’ll be doing. I’m excited. It’s sort of like creating a virtual old English library where anyone can stop in for tea. I’m having a ball. It will all be redesigned quite soon (oh yes, I’m going to be all professional about this and actually get someone to help me frame in that tricky code) but the site address will remain the same.

Last but not least, if you live in Colorado, my mom and I are hosting several Christmas literary events where there will be talks on reading, Christmas book recommendations, readings of favorite stories, and of course, hot tea and toffee pudding. If you are interested in attending, email me at itinerantidealist@gmail.com, and I’ll whiz the details your way.

Have a beautiful Thanksgiving my friends!

I find my brain too knotted for serious thinking today.

I was going to review Lilith, and along with it, tell you more about George MacDonald. Can’t seem to find the words yet.

I was going to flesh out the bones of the essay I’ve been carrying in my head all week. Too many good directions it could go though.

So, I’ll just tell you the story of my yesterday afternoon. It was a good one, the sort that made me thank God for every one of its minutes when I got in bed last night. Nothing spectacular, just small graces mounded into a heap of good cheer in my heart. It started with a mocha as I scrunched into a corner table at my coffee shop. Reading was first (this always makes life better). A picture book of English landscapes for pure beauty, a few passages from The Celtic Christ by Philip Newell, to spur my dazed thoughts to dancing. Then a frenzied scribbling of notes in the margins of my journal, half of praise for what Newell spoke of, half in furious disagreement. Most stimulating.

And then I wrote. That might have been the best part. I had been wanting to all day because, without any sort of drumroll or inner trumpet, I’d known the love of God early that morning. Just like that. Sitting in my red chair in the the half light of a cloudy dawn. I’d been reading St. Teresa, with her spirited urging for all of us to seek the inner castle of our hearts. I love that image, this inner room where God watches, waits. I closed my eyes, seeking that place, and I was with my Father in a simple surety of love. More than anything in that moment, I knew myself and all people to be held. Something about reading George MacDonald again with his confidence in the great Father, Hosea too, has helped me to grasp the way we are all cradled in the active, inexorable love of God. Every goodness is of his heart, every pain is caught up in his redemption. Nothing can take us out of the circle of his mercy.  Christ over me, Christ under me, Christ beside me, on my left and my right, as the old Irish prayers say. I wrote three pages in a mental drive to capture the glow of that minute. I have no doubt that a future me will need it.

And then I walked. There is a little mountain lake nearby and I trudged through the red mud and sullied snow in search of silence. Dusk pooled, slow and navy above the eastern valley. Homelights flickered to life in the gloom. A line of gold rallied over the mountains, then died in a quiet, flickering crimson. A single tree, its roots deep in the frozen lake, lifted up his arms,  fingers etching a black poem against the sky. Chill air filled every inch of me. The rhythm of my steps was a chant of gratitude.

Then home. For an episode of Monk (yes, I must admit to this)  and quesadillas, and a fight for the last blackberry Izzy, and Nate on his Thanksgiving visit. We’re all home but one which makes for a good deal more noise. I usually enjoy this. The absent brother, of course, called at one point, just to be sure we wouldn’t forget him.  Kelsey, our truly pathetic golden retriever (what other creature on the face of the earth gets to think they have a meaningful existence by begging to be fed and petted?) was quite happy. There were extra hands to be nosed. And then, to bed. A warm bed, with many quilts on a very cold night.

All so small, all so good. I’m grateful. It’s a good way to start Thanksgiving.

May your week begin with a similar pile of small graces.

Maxing out my library holds list. I get in a book mood and order about a dozen. Two are ready today: A Simply Wonderful Christmas: A Literary Advent Calendar, and Brendan.

Being done with the business side of being a writer. Sales tax licenses and business acounts, bleh.

Riffling back through the pages of Lilith in search of my favorite quotes. (Book review on that one soon.)

My recent gift from a bookish friend: Tasha Tudor’s The Great Corgiville Kidnapping. Tasha Tudor is one of my heroines. Do you know what made it even better? Opening the first page and finding it was signed. Yes. (I did, in all fairness, offer it back to my friend. I mean, there are some things you just have to do. My friend responded with heroic self-sacrifice and the book is now on my highest shelf.)

Walking in the opalescent light of melting snow with a sapphire sky above.

This quote by George Eliot: Perhaps the most delightful friendships are those in which there is much agreement, much disputation, and yet more personal liking. Which reminds me. I have recently changed my “Quotes” tab to “Quote Box.” I am adding more quotes there all the time, and think it would be a great delight to have a community quote collection. So, if you have any best beloved quotes, leave them in a comment on the Quote Box page. Thank you!

Coffee with my two lovelies, Ellie and Joy (my sister). We will ostensibly be doing a Bible study, but we’ll add in a good bit of rambling chatter with healthy doses of mocha and laughter.

Laughter in general.

When night comes on with song and tale we pass the wintry hours;
By keeping up a cheerful heart we hope for better days.
We tend the cattle, sow the seed, give work unto the ploughers,
With patience wait till winter yields before the sun’s fair rays.
And so the world goes round and round, and every time and season
With pleasure and with profit crowns the passage of the year,
And so through every time of life, to him who acts with reason,
The beauty of all things doth appear.

-Traditional English Song

I nearly cried in an auto shop the other day.

It started on a morning that felt like spring. There was sunlight clear as water, and an early wind that played on my skin and set the dead pine needles at my feet to skipping. I saw none of it though. I stood, eyes shaded, in the country lot of an auto shop and saw only the screwed up mouth and squinting eyes of my mechanic. He was circling my car, prodding my injured bumper with his foot, assessing the damage that my run in with a snowbank had wrought several weeks back. My teeth grit tight together. This repair had thrown a wrench in my careful budget and I knew that this car repairmen could easily get the better of me. I have no idea what mechanics are talking about and I have learned this the expensive way.

“Well,” he finally said, “You’re definitely going to need some work done. If you just want to drive it though, I can have my body work guys fix the bumper for now.”

I nodded, and then steeled my arms.

“How much will that cost?”

Quiet stepped into the space between us, and I thought he hadn’t heard me. I made myself look up to speak again, but found him already looking my way, head tilted.

“You know what, I’ll just do it for free. When you decide to get the major repairs done, come talk to me. This is on the house.”

That’s when I got tears in my eyes. I turned so he wouldn’t see. I had so dreaded all this; my incompetence at cars and the unexpected cost. The burden of one more detail I didn’t know how to handle. And then this grace walked in, this unassuming care handed over by a taciturn man in a gray jumpsuit. It struck me silent. My throat ached with thankfulness.

Part of it was that this was the third such kindness I had received in a week. Five days before, in minor crisis of trust and sick of my own fretting brain, I had outlined to God exactly what I needed and then, in an act of tremulous faith, dismissed my angst from my brain. I felt a little shocked when the next day, one of my prayers was abruptly answered by an unsuspecting neighbor. Then a friend presented me with an unexpected gift. And now this generous car man had answered yet another of my secret requests.

What struck me hard though, stung my eyes as I sat in the disorganized little waiting room of the auto shop, was the meek, sweet way these gifts had come. So unlike what I had expected. I think I am a bit of a two-year-old when it comes to prayer. I am insistent, direct, and occasionally throw a fit to be sure God notices my desires. I also have an image in my mind of how I think God ought to answer me. I want prosperity rained down, now, on my head. I want a flashy gift of ease to arrive on my doorstep and send my troubles packing. I want it free of strings too.

I find instead that God cares for me through the love of people. One by one, their friend-sized offerings of time, or care, or provision come to my life like seeds, and their kindness begins to grow, slowly, in the soil of my heart. The harvest is help in my trouble, yes, but also a comradeship that will bear fruit beyond this minute of need. I saw that, suddenly, in the auto shop. No supernatural bolt of ease could give me the friendship, the neighborliness that grows up between people who give and receive gifts in grace. God’s answers to my prayers don’t set me in an autonomy of blessedness, but instead bind me to the goodness of the people around me.

The auto mechanic with his repairs. The long love of my parents. A book given by a friend. Even my pet-sitting job, providing just enough extra to help with what I need and sparking rapport with my neighbor. I couldn’t have known to ask specifically for any of these things. My blind, toddler-like desire would have left me rich and friendless. God knows though, that I need love and fellowship, a humble heart, and a soul knit to my neighbors, just as much as help in practical matters. So, it wasn’t just the free car repairs that made me cry.  It was knowing that I had a double gift. I woke up to find a whole garden of kindness sown into my heart with each bit of help. Those gifts will bear fruit in my soul. I will be nourished by apples of friendship, and herbs of neighborliness far beyond this time. And out of that harvest abundance I will turn around and give a few seeds myself.

That is an answered prayer worth a few happy tears.

I’ve rambled around the internet more than usual of late, and stumbled upon some marvelous artsy, literary sorts of things. I feel compelled to share them:

The Writer’s Almanac with Garrison Keillor
I’m having such fun with this. It’s basically a poem a day. If you subscribe to the free podcast, you get a dose of literary history for the particular day you’re on, as well as Garrison Keillor’s reading of the daily poem. Great literary stuff, and to hear the famous Mr. Keillor read the poems aloud in that strange, mellow voice of his. Well.

Remembering Esther Hautzig
When I studied WWII history, one of the first books my mom assigned was Esther Hautzig’s The Endless Steppe. This true, but oh so winsomely told memoir of a Jewish girl from Poland who was exiled to Siberia in 1939, captivated me from page one. I think I read it several more times during my growing up years because it was a book that managed to bring the worldwide forces of war and separation down to the level of a young girl, longing for home, yet making a new one in the midst of exile. I still remember how desperately she wanted a pair of Siberian boots, only to find that she’d never wear them once back in Poland. I didn’t realize that Esther later came to the States and worked in children’s literature. She died just this week, and the above link will take you to a list of several tributes to her work and character. Remarkable woman.

The Semicolon Blog – “Books we must have though we lack bread.”
I’m lovin’ this blog! If you want a plethora of excellent book reviews on all sorts of subjects with a bit of history and art thrown in for good measure, then head on over.

James A. Michener Art Museum
I love serendipity. I was checking out the membership benefits of a certain art museum and found a list of other museums into which said considered membership would gain me entrance. One of them was the James A. Michener Art Museum. An author with a penchant for art? This sounded interesting. I headed over and found what is one of my delights- a small art museum with a collection of beloved, hand-picked paintings. This one focuses specifically on the art of Buck’s County, PA, but they have an online gallery of their works, and oh my, you wouldn’t believe the luminescent landscapes, the country scenes, the portraits to be found in that collection. I spent an accidental hour being enmeshed in their beauty. And I am now determined to someday own some form of night scene print by George W. Sotter.

John Muir Writings
I watched the PBS documentary, The National Parks: America’s Best Idea, and wished I could meet the people behind the whole national parks project. They loved nature. John Muir was one of them; he was a naturalist who spent months by himself in the deepest wilds of the rockies. His love of nature, his awe of its Creator, and the writing he did to describe it formed a partial narrative to the documentary. Needless to say, I wanted all his books after hearing this quote: he who believes in neither God nor glaciers is the worst sort of unbeliever. I can see the wryness on his face as he said it. Imagine my delight to find the above online collection for free.

Is There Anyone Anymore Who Will Tell Us How to Write Well?
I sent this article to my editor. I thought she’d appreciate it. She recommended I get White’s guide to writing style. (Wonder why?!)

Charles Van Sandwyk Art
I’ve mentioned this artist before, but a recent book fair enabled me to hold a few copies of his priceless books and I just have to let the world know of his existence again. The intricate, fairy tale, folk tale sense to his art is charming beyond words, but the fact that he steadfastly maintains his own press and oversees every bit of his work from start to finish is equally wondrous. I have just a few notecards of his framed, but someday, I hope to get a book. A browse of his pictures is a hearty meal for the imagination.

I pulled my neighbor’s red door shut behind me and grinned. This was the easiest money I’d ever made. Feed the dog twice a day for a week and don’t let the cats out. This, I could do. It was my first afternoon as an official babysitter of beloved pets and I thought the world, the pets, and myself were sittin’ pretty. You know, starving artists have to take whatever employment they can, but this wasn’t half bad. So thought innocent me the whole way to the grocery store and back. The sun had set in a splendor of gold and I was whistling as I stepped up to my front door.

I stopped. There was a cat in my neighbor’s driveway. A black and white cat. Now, you need to know that my neighbor had vividly described her beloved, black and white pet cat Buster. You also need to know that I had never seen said cat (or it’s tabby sister) as both had decided I was a terror not to be faced for all the coaxing in the world. I had taken the job without a glimpse of my charges. I stared at this cat. Surely it wasn’t Buster. I’d locked the doors, I knew I had. But why else would there be a black and white cat plopped in the middle of that particular driveway? Our street doesn’t have outdoor cats. We have foxes, bears, coyotes, raccoons, and deer in our yards. I stared at the cat with rising panic. My neighbor’s words of warning flooded my brain: whatever you do, don’t let the cats out. They’re declawed, impossible to catch, and won’t last long outside. Instantly, I knew two irrefutable facts: if that sleek little menace escaped me it would be eaten by coyotes and it would be all my fault. Not only would my neighbor dislike me and refuse to pay me, I would become known as the cat-killer of Woodmoor estates.

I dropped my groceries. I ran. So did the cat.

It leapt the back fence as I barged in the front door, stumbling through the kitchen and out to the deck just in time to see it settle on a porch chair. The game of cat and girl began. I stepped out, ready for battle. I moved an inch: it moved. I stepped forward, it stepped back. Kirby, the golden retriever, ran back and forth between us in a frenzy of friendliness. Neither cat nor I noticed; we were locked in a game of cool strategy. I bent down, “here kitty, kitty,” I murmured. One paw forward, one back. A flick of tail. I got it to the door stop. Put a finger out. I grabbed for the scruff of its neck. “MeOW,” it screeched as I whisked my hand from its jaws. (Can’t you just hear the conversation at the doctor’s office? “So why are you getting a rabies shot?” – “Oh, I was trying to drag a strange cat into my neighbor’s house.”) It leapt back, escape in its eyes and I panicked. I didn’t think, I lunged. I grabbed that silky, squirming thing, tumbled into the house and dropped it on the floor.

And then it hit me. What if this wasn’t Buster? I sighed and lunged again, past fearing rabies, dumped the cat in a tiny bathroom and slammed the door. He shrieked in outrage. I plugged my ears and ran for the kitchen. The only way to prove this wasn’t the beloved Buster was to find the real one. And his sister. All in a three story house that was entirely dark. I searched the basement first, fumbling for light switches through a maze of bedrooms and storage closets. That spider-up-my-spine chill of being in dark, deep, lonesome places came flooding back, a ghost from childhood, and it was with the wide-eyed terror of a five-year old that I sprinted back to the main floor. Panting, I stood, straightened my shoulders and tried to consider myself an adult.

Up to the next floor. Aha. A dark flash round a bedroom door. I dashed in. Not a whisker in sight. I searched the whole room until the underside of the bed remained. I knelt, sneezing at the cat hairs (yes, I’m allergic) and carefully lifted the bed skirt, expecting every second to have my eyes clawed out by a terrified feline. In the farthest, darkest corner, in a space the size of a bread box, I spotted a pair of green eyes in the underbed gloom. Couldn’t for the life of me see the color of its fur though. At that second, in pranced the tabby. Nose in the air, stiletto-like paws. She looked pure disdain at me down her well-polished pink nose. I glared. Ya coulda shown up a few minutes earlier Miss Tabs. Okay. That made three cats. Which meant the caterwauling demon downstairs was a strange, probably wild cat that I had dragged into my neighbor’s peaceful home. Lovely.

Oh, and then? After pitching (gently) the instigator of my troubles out the back door (he would just have to fend for himself with the coyotes) I trudged wearily to feed the dog in the garage. Kirby has the eyes of the golden retriever in the movie Up. I made very sure to shut the house door behind me so the darn cats wouldn’t have a half chance of escaping. Now, wouldn’t you assume that if a key fit every other lock in the house it would fit the one in the garage? Me too. It didn’t. I scoped my predicament. No cell phone. (Of course. I never, my family chides, have my phone in potentially dire situations.) Assuming I could get the garage door opener to work, there was no telling if I could keep that rambunctious giant of a dog from sprinting. I was already ten minutes late for church. No time to dash through the neighborhood. I made my decision. I crawled out the dog run.

All I’ve gotta say is I’ve earned every penny my neighbor pays.

And I’m never going to own a cat.

Lord, I bring you my treasure.

It is larger than the mountains, broader than the world, deeper than the sea, higher than the clouds, more lovely than the sun, more manifold than the stars; it weighs more than the whole earth.

Oh you, image of My godhead, made splendid by My humanity, adorned with My Holy Spirit- what is your treasure called?

Lord, it is called my heart’s desire. I have withdrawn it from the world, preserved it in myself, and denied it to all creatures. But I can bear it no further.

Lord. Where shall I lay it?

-Mechthild of Magdeburg

November resolution number one: write more book reviews.

It is scandalous how many books I read and never say or write a word about. A good book demands praise. So. Starting today, I’m going to do a weekly mini-review post of all the books I am reading. Just jottings; postcards if you will, from my literary travels. Longer reviews of particularly superb books will occasionally follow. But this habit will give me the chance to regularly articulate a few of the delightful, but agitated bookish thoughts constantly in my head. Feel free to join in the literary agitation.

The Brontes: Charlotte Bronte and Her Family by Rebecca Fraser
All writers need a few literary idols.  I never thought Charlotte Bronte would be one of mine. I liked Jane Eyre when I read it back in high school, but it didn’t sweep me away. Charlotte herself is a different matter. The fierce, tiny woman who hailed unthinkable grief with stoic faith, who loved and dreamed with unmitigated passion- she rivets me. Loyal, sarcastic, shy, determined, an idealist whose world was the tiny box of a parsonage on the Yorkshire moors, Charlotte Bronte offers a life story that reads like a novel. Gwen loved this and passed it on a couple of years ago, and having finally gotten round to it, I feel the same sorriness in finishing it as I do on ending Victorian epics by the likes of George Eliot, or Charles Dickens.

To begin with, this is excellent history and biography. The ideas and events of Victorian England and the literary world that was so rich at that time are extensively explained, as are Charlotte’s convictions, decisions, and history. I feel educated. But Rebecca Fraser has also managed to make this biography read like a story. She allows the brisk, brilliant tang of Charlotte’s letters and journals to form the main narrative of the book. We hear directly from Charlotte of the foibles of lifestyle, thought, and faith that made her a genius of a woman and writer. From her beginning as one of six imaginative children, to her end as the lone survivor of her beloved siblings, Charlotte’s story is marked by loss and a wild sense of sorrow. But it is shot through with her stoic Christian faith, her fire-fierce love for her family, and the vivid imagination that made an inner world for her and her readers.  I loved Fraser’s voice as a biographer. She is winsome, breezy, and descriptive. She shows great restraint in conjecture about Charlotte’s life, never forcing a theory where there is room for disagreement. Modern biographies often read all kinds of unfounded motives into the actions of defenseless writers who aren’t around to explain themselves. Fraser doesn’t. If Charlotte said it, it’s true. Otherwise, she leaves the matter to mystery. She also offers sympathetic, but often amused commentary on Charlotte’s rather abrasive opinions, her martyrish dedication to “truth in her art,”and her few fierce loves.

I started this book expecting to be challenged as a writer. In the end, I was heartened simply as a human soul by this story of the woman who accidentally set Victorian society on its ear with her passion and insight into human nature. Charlotte showed me the power of inner worlds, how a vivid, soulful imagination can form a story that makes a world for the inhabitation of other minds. She showed me how passion and grief can be poured into powerful creation. She also proved that it is possible to keep a soul vividly, lovingly alive in the shadowiest of situations. If you are in the mood for a long (this is 500 pages!), writerly, introspective, but tangy book and rather soulish biography, this is it.

King of Shadows by Susan Cooper
I thought of my siblings the whole time I read this. Especially my brothers. When we were all young, we spent read-aloud afternoons together which were inevitably followed by a re-enactment of our story (when we were little) or a discussion of its philosophy (when we were old and sophisticated). Our little gang would have gotten great mileage out of this book. I picked this up at Goodwill, and was going to skim it one Saturday, never expecting to be intrigued. But the actor boy Nat, the shimmering world of the stage, and a time-traveling story of Shakespearean England had me glued to its pages within five minutes. Eleven-year-old Nat is the hero of this tale, an actor of a boy who loves his role of Puck in an itinerant troupe’s production of  A Midsummer Night’s Dream. When Nat gets sick on the eve of a grand performance in London’s Globe Theater, he wakes to find himself transported back to the days of Shakespeare himself. His friendship with the Bard and the time he spends in the smelly, sweaty, rollicking world of sixteenth century London, help him to sort out the secret grief that lurks in his present. A celebration of the stage, a subtle exploration of how art and friendship help us to bear grief, while also being a sensitive tale of an orphaned boy, this story has a surprising poignancy. Cooper is a writer who weaves a scene so that you feel you are in it. I’d caution though, that this really isn’t a children’s book, however much it says it is. Nothing graphic, but the themes, and Nat’s secret sorrow, make this a more mature tale.

Sacred Legacy by Myrna Grant
Steph had this waiting on my pillow when I visited in October. I’ve read a chapter a day as a storyish way to begin devotions. I am heartily pleased. My first observation is very insightful, of course: it’s not treacly. I get rankled by the plethora of spiritual books for women that lack verve, strength, challenge. Not this. The first chapter is on Perpetua, a young and beautiful Roman martyr who was so enthralled by the joy of Christ, she walked to her death singing hymns, barely aware of the arena where she met a wild animal. Try that for a devotional spark with your morning tea.

This is a collection of writings excerpted from the works of nine, ancient Christian women. Remarkable  anyway for being writers in times when few women were educated at all, each woman was also exceptional in her love of God. Each chapter is prefaced by a personable introduction and short history/biography by the compiler, Myrna Grant. Grant herself is an engaging writer, using stories from her own life and travels as an intro to her easy-to-read histories of the ancient church and her bios of the featured women. These are followed by excerpts from the works of the women themselves. So far in my reading, I’ve met Perpetua, Dhuoda, a worried medieval mother writing instructions about faith to her son, and Hildegard, an opinionated, brilliant, and passionate nun. Each story, each rousing bit of ancient writing, has an energy that spurs me. I am better readied to think, to pray, but mostly to love after encountering the vivacious faith of these women. They have lots of verve. I want to too.

And now. On my currently reading, or soon to be begged, borrowed, bought, or stolen list:

1. Brendan by Frederick Buechner
2. The End of Suffering: Finding Purpose in Our Pain by Scott Cairns
3. Lilith by George MacDonald
4. The Importance of Being Foolish by Brennan Manning
5. Standing by Words by Wendell Berry. I am going to finally finish this.
6. Sophie’s World by Jostein Gaarder
7. The Everlasting Man by G.K. Chesterton

I was driving down the highway very early (too early)  the other day. Snow like sugar on the streets, steam rising from the slip of tires, the sky a pale, unbearable blue. Fingers stiff with cold, eyes dim with sleep and irritation, I tapped the radio on to classical. A piano and violin duet came on, notes blue as twilight, quick as running water. I was leaning forward, into the music. The melody was like the aching run to a hilltop, a breathless climb, and then, joy to the far horizon. It ended. I unslumped in my seat. My eyes widened. I was suddenly aware of that particular moment, the melody invading it, the pearled gleam of snow that lightened it. I looked out my window. Beauty tapped me on the shoulder. I turned to face it, and found God saying good morning.

Ever present, His presence takes me unawares.

I often clutch at beauty, and in it, God’s companionship. I scratch at it with my fingernails because I feel it to be spontaneous, and somehow, fickle. God seems at times like a whimsical friend. Beauty is sudden and unscheduled.  A passage of story stabs my heart awake (as R.L. Stevenson would say), music calls my name, some glimpse of nature engulfs my eyes in joy, and I feel alive. Those glimpses convince me that God is really with me. Then, abruptly, they’re gone. Hurry and need and work shove joy out of my life. I grasp at it, but only manage to catch the ache of its leaving. I mourn. Some part of me even feels abandoned. Gradually, I forget the whole thing. I wake up to the weary hours of another daily sort of day, and forget to even want God’s beauty, or his company.

So he taps me on the shoulder. A glint of light off snow, a strain of unexpected music. Up comes my head, as if I had seen a beloved face in a strange city. It’s like thinking someone has abandoned you, when suddenly, you see them across a crowd, waving delightedly, running to greet you. In my car, I looked up and found God running toward me. The song and snow were his call across the crowd. He comes whispering, then dancing in front of me, glinting in and out of my sight, calling my name in laughter and song. His beauty never abandons me, it just keeps waking me up to love him again. And if, at times, it seems fleeting, it’s not from his being fickle, but from my being frail. My own forgetfulness, my rush, my  persistent dimness of soul are what make him seem absent. The miracle is that he never leaves me there. Tap. A violin duet. Tap. A crimson sunrise. Tap. Fresh bread. Tap. I look up.

What do you know. He’s still there.