Friday afternoon vignette

The sun has been tucked up in the billowing down of the clouds all day. I sit in my swing, and close my eyes to hear the world aflutter around me. The crickets sing their high undertone as one of the last songbirds left us sings her autumn praise to an empty world. A woodpecker is hard at work in the woods with his percussion and the crows punctuate the melody of the golden earth preparing for winter.

The sun glows through her blanket for a moment, and I tip my head back. The yellow bleeds through my eyelids and I am awash in my favorite color. I have paused Jane Eyre, the perfect shade of gray but too oppressive. I am alone at home, the children gone with one of their favorite great-aunt and uncle ahead of us for a weekend of fun.

He bleeds through. He warms my face. He bathes me in gold. He is here in every sound, fragrance, poetry, music of the earth. I am alone but held so gently.

Yesterday I washed the wounds of others in the free clinic. Spent an evening singing with the voice he gave. Hugged hard a hurting friend. I awoke feeling tired of this world again, tired of gray, tired of hurting. The computer blinks to the screensaver, and I remember harder times. Amy, sick and gray on her hospital bed. A baby blighted in my belly. A time of trouble in my marriage. The crisp, familiar scent of hospital sheets surrounding my aching head. A missionary's chorus has beguiled me, and the words come silent to my lips as I thank Father for His grace and healing.

O, I come to the Son who can heal with His wounds,

O, I come to the Thief who has robbed every tomb,

O, I come to the Victor, my Life and my Love,

O, Lamb of God, I come.

O, Lamb of God, I come.