I love that summer-hot, balmy air that stirs up the trees these days. The clouds are speeding southward over the chapped mountains, as summer repeats itself, so old and timely. The heartbeat of it all keeps on beating, beating. And we all keep on breathing.
Malcolm and his wife are sitting reading the paper and sipping on brew. I know their children. Their children are having their own adventures, and Malcolm and his wife sit weathered and calm. They seem so insignificant. They are repeating themselves, and it is summer-lovely. Once I sat in a prayer meeting with Malcolm and when he said something, he apologized for taking up airtime. Others need the chance to speak.
I love the humble summer and the tepid people that keep on going and remind me our God doesn’t change.
I’d like to talk to Solomon about Ecclesiastes. I’d like to know why I am sitting in a coffee shop, with friends to see tonight for feminine renewal and lolling about with, and a husband at home for snuggles, while two people died last night in a plane crash in San Francisco, and half of Calgary is under water. I’d like to know why I work a minimum wage job with a bunch of kids, and my husband packs boxes for a living. Time and chance happened to us—they happen to us all. Some people are rock stars and some people are supermen to their children alone. I’d like to know the mystery of quiet people. Everything I do is more or less out loud, while others’ lives are like a golden rustling sea of grass. I’d like to know why some children fade into the night in the womb, and some children are ninety and strong. I’d like to know what the bridge between here and heaven looks like, and if it will feel like taking a breezy stroll when I cross over.