I am sitting in the dark on my deck, pretending to work. What I'm really doing is listening to birds and frogs and bugs tweet and twitter and croak and chirp. They're singing harmony with the deep melodic bass of a wind gong somewhere in the distance.
After a long day of replumbing the water line to my parents' deck hose bib (the copper pipe froze and burst last winter) and replacing landscape fabric and mulch in their landscaping beds and planting some veggies in an old wheelbarrow for Mom, I am tired in that pleasant way that makes you thankful for a place to put your feet up. The breeze off the pond whispers secrets—stories that are nobody knows how old and as new as the yellow blossoms unfurling on my tomato plants.
The moon has a halo. I see it through the arbor roof and feel its glow in the marrow of my bones. It is exactly half a moon--light and shadow in equal proportions.
The same old challenges of my life are present tonight, but God is making music and asking me to dance. What can I do but twirl like a child at the farmer's market?