In the Tiptoe Moments

The angels must have spilled their face powder this morning as white dust covered everything. 

I really should have gotten presentably dressed in something warmer, but as has been my habit lately, I ran Grace to school in the attire of the moment–silky black pj bottoms with pink and white dots that remind me of bokeh, a peach-colored Women of Faith T-shirt that hangs near to my knees topped by a shorter pink sweatshirt–the one my mom sent me to stay warm during my yard-sitting mornings–feet outfitted with mismatched socks (one pink and white striped and the other a two-tone blue pattern on gray) and pink slippers. Oh, the laughs the EMTs and police could have had if…

When I arrived home (without incident except maybe for the cute, blond-haired, seventh-grade boy that might have glimpsed my get-up when I dropped Grace off, Timehop Abe reminded me of the following from two years ago today–originally posted on BibleDude. I kind of enjoyed reading my own words today. Maybe you will, too. 

 

 

The point of a soft pink triangle cuts between two pine trees to the southeast, and a sparrow lands on a bare branch just outside my bedroom window. I peel back the Target-bought shabby chic quilt, the white one striped with pink roses, and slide from between crisp white sheets, careful not to disturb the cat curled next to me. I slip on my fluffy white robe, pocket the Droid, and creep downstairs in search of slippers.

I love the tiptoe moments of the morning when the house is quiet save for the hum of the fridge.

Before the grandgirl begs me to please pour her Trix and milk.

Before she plops on the couch, turns on cartoons and fires up the sound on her Kindle.

Before D rattles dishes, turns on the news, and wants to discuss which bill to pay with the corn money.

Before the day’s loud descends.

When I can just sit in the stillness and ignore the to-do list.

A bluejay pecks at ice, so I run hot water in a pitcher, step into the cold and pour slowly into the bath. I watch a small hole form, and the basin overflows. I wonder if the birds wait and watch, if they’re grateful I’ve met their need.

I set the pitcher on the concrete, rock the top from the metal can, and scoop up black oil seed into my blue feed funnel. The usually skittish chickadee waits on the feeder until I can almost reach out and stroke a feather before it flutters to a nearby bush.

The sun has exploded in the triangle, and the frosted ground glitters with many colors.

I would have missed this if I’d stayed in bed.

 

 

I hurry back to the garage, toss the funneled scoop back into the seed, and replace the lid.  I give it an extra push on right and then on left to critter proof the can. In the back kitchen, I shed slippers and retrieve my tall black muck boots from the dust bunnies under the pine bin. With camera in tow, I head back outside.

I breathe deep of fresh air and snap, snap from different angles, trying to capture the jewels spilled before me.

 

 

For a moment, I remember my mom and how we wrapped her well and wheeled her out in the November chill. I remember how she’d stare at baubles in the blue refracted by the scratched lens of glasses for as long as we (my dad and Sissy and I) could stand the cold. “Sunspots,” she called them. And I wonder at how that was only a glimpse of the treasure laid up for her–for us–by the Father of lights.

And I hear Grace call me in for her Trix.

 

In the stillness,

Sandy