God must be busy

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"After I'm dead, can I come back and fly around inside a tornado?!" My little boy's blue eyes sparkle, blinking up at my father. I can almost see his little wheels turning as he considers the possibilities of what a 'spirit' can do that a body can't. "Well, you could," Grandpa replies, squinting at the horizon over the steering wheel of his truck, "but you probably won't. After we die, we'll have the ability to do things like that, but we'll have so much work to do, we won't want to spend our time doing foolish things like that."

As I drive through the small suburb where I used to live, alone in my car, I smile as I reflect on that conversation from weeks ago. Time is a funny thing. Wise old Grandpa. Why would we fill our time with such foolish things? Of course we wouldn't.

I have a lot of time right now. Time and solitude. I wished for it. Now I have it.

Be careful what you wish for.

It's the first 'visitation.' I've handed over the boys to their father for the next several weeks. The youngest just learned to walk. He's so little. I'm close-by, available ... but unwanted by the powers that be.

What would you do if you had the gift of time? It's bittersweet now. But a gift nonetheless. And I am trying to savor it in spite of the aftertaste.

One evening I left to go shopping all by myself. (You know you are a mother when you consider that to be luxurious.) But as I drove west, the setting sun seemed to beckon me as it began its descent behind the sleepy mountains. And as no one was expecting me home to make dinner, do dishes, feed the dog, or put the children to bed ... I drove right by the market and followed the siren's song instead.

In front of city hall in our small suburb, there is a miniature city park of sorts--an island of emerald grass and a fountain draw people there to laugh, picnic, and sit together in the middle of the concrete jungle. That's where I was drawn to, so that's where I went. A perfect parking space, right on the perimeter, waited just for me. After climbing out of my car and strolling onto the lawn, I hesitated, then leaned over to unbuckle my sandals and wiggled my toes in the cool grass. I scanned the mini-park to find a spot. Small clusters of people huddled in bunches talking, smiling, and texting. A sullen pair of tween-age girls sitting on a bench. A mother reading a book with her children playing nearby. A group of beautiful women gathering on a blanket in full garb with their faces veiled--only their eyes showing. Eventually I opted for a section of soft grass. I made my way slowly across the deep green carpet, swinging my sandals in my hand, drinking in the evening breeze and letting it tousle my hair. As I sat and gazed at the squealing children in the fountain, I chuckled to myself. Why is it that even in my hour of 'independence,' I tend to migrate toward places where there are children? For a moment, I closed my eyes and took it all in--the splash of the fountain, the squeals of laughter, the murmuring of the women on the blanket nearby, the rowdy music from a bar across the street, the coming and going of the trains at the nearby station. And for that moment I marveled.

How does He keep track of it all? How is it that He is aware of me? But He is. I know it.

In that moment, I thought about God watching down on us from up in heaven. I know he's busy. Like my father says, there is so much work to be done. But can't you just see him stopping for a moment and listening to us, being aware of us? Just like I did in that moment, times a buh-zillion-cuh-trillion? I can. And it's miraculous to me.

And in that moment, I thought for the millionth time, Please, Lord, protect my little children. Be with them. Because right now, I can't. And I know he heard me. For the millionth time.

As I opened my eyes, they were all still there: the book lady, the children, the women, the tweens. I watched the shadows grow longer. Eventually, mommies with towels came scooping their scoundrels out of the fountain. An ebony angel came scampering, grinning, giggling through the grass toward me. Her tiny brown foot brushed close to my hand. Not far behind came a very voluptuous, very winded woman smiling from ear to ear. "She's beautiful," I said. "Thank you," she laughed.

As the last rays of sunshine tucked themselves into a bed of soft purple clouds, I buckled my shoes and retreated to my car for a late-night shopping trip. I arrived home later than planned, but in the end it didn't matter to anyone. It's a strange reality.

Time is a funny thing.