On Sunday I watched as waves swelled towards the bank of a murky lake. As the waves began to move through tall lake grass, it revealed that the water was not murky but clear, it was beautiful. The water looked murky because of the bottom of the lake. Once it was spread thinly along the shallows, it acted as a lens bending the light and bending the grass. I sat there in the lake holding down a five-gallon bucket with a rope tied to it so my mother in law would not float away in her raft on the very windy lake.
I played and talked with the two little girls, two and four, that I was in charge of. I gave them a safe harbor in the lake so they could enjoy the water without fear. It was a calm day we sat and talked and played and ate. Sometimes we scolded the boys for being too rowdy in the water. The day was a good and the waves were so clear. Sitting there I considered the wonder of such a small thing. Something happening so boldly with only the permission of God to give it approval. It was a poem waiting to be written, an impressionistic painting waiting to be smeared across a canvas, a thought waiting for someone to muse over. No, it was just the world turning with its beauty, unapologetically turning.
Even now the waves flow and the light bends and no one is there to see it. Yet it does flow, and the light does bend. The waves have the same majesty as the storm, but the storm is so much louder and demands our attention. Look at the storm, look at all of those people with storms inside them. A collection of infinite storms of emotion, confusion, logic, philosophy, spirituality and blinding circumstance. The human race is a hurt child stuck on a merry go round with the sun in the center just waiting for someone to come take the hurt away. How wonderful these individuals as swirling galaxies. How loved they are. If they only knew if they would only accept.
Somewhere in Texas the waves still flow and they still bend the light.
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