Sunday, April 15, 2012
Meditations on a Busy Spring
In my seminary classes, they want to stretch us. They want to make us think. By supper on most days, I feel like I cannot think or listen anymore. So I take evening walks and count street lamps and listen for night sounds. The other night a huge full moon rose in the east and I imagined climbing on it and riding it until morning. My mind was tired and wanted to play.
This weekend I have been studying for a Greek exam, reading textbooks, and working on a paper. I like to work in coffee shops on Saturdays with a tall, steamy cup beside me. Between chapters, I watch the steam lift in a slow dance from the rim. I watch the sun lean against the street. I watch people walk by, and I remember.
I suppose the remembering is a sign that I am growing old. When I spot a baby in arms, I marvel that I ever held one. Was it real? For some reason, I vividly remember coloring Easter eggs with my children. And I think of my gardens and how I might have been in one of them. Tulips, bright as Christmas bulbs, would be waving from a sea of violets.
Such things seem far away when books are piled high in front of me and deadlines loom.
I fight back the thought that I am too old for this, that I have started late, that there will be little time left after I graduate. I recall in the Gospels the wedding in Cana where Jesus turned the water into wine, and the host remarked, "You have saved the best for last."
Late in life, school is a feast for the soul, the best wine served last. It is a chance to stretch and drink deeply before the shadows of earthly years have grown long. I lift my cup to the sun and to the people passing by. I propose a toast to small miracles. Who knows what this one may yield?
Have you ever taken a chance on something that you were not sure was practical?