My baby dress–crocheted by my Aunt Esther in 1949.
“Grandma! Grandma! A worm. A worm in my room!” She sounds hysterical.
I leap out of bed. “I’m coming! I’m coming!”
She’s reacting to a new medicine. Not so well.
“Don’t open the door! It’ll fall on your head! It’s moving!” She’s sobbing.
I run to the bathroom and pull three yards of toilet paper from the roll.
I open the door. Carefully. I am not afraid.
I look up.
There’s no worm. Just a crack in the woodwork above the door that’s been there for years. A chink. A missing chunk.
Her eyes are playing tricks tonight because it’s 2 a.m., and she can’t sleep. Can’t rest. And her vision is distorted.
She doesn’t believe me that it’s not a worm. A grub. That’s getting bigger by the second and will soon reach her bed.
And I think about all the chinks and missing chunks in my life. How my vision is distorted. How sometimes I see nothing but grubs determined to munch holes through clean through any new growth.
And I’m afraid.
Until I remember I don’t see as He sees. His vision is perfect. He sees from a distance. And He sees deep.
And He sees the beautiful pattern that the grubs He allows will make.
The lace of life.
And I look up.
But tomorrow I will paint the grub.
Letting words flow in community with Lisa Jo, the Gypsy Mama, today on the word prompt–perspective.
Writing for 5 minutes flat – no editing, no over thinking, no backtracking.
I dare you to try it.