a picnic on quince street

 

 

There is a familiarity about this street and these people that doesn’t come from the years I’ve known them (indeed, it has only been months).  Nor the location of the city (it has been my home for only just a few seasons).  Not the cobblestone streets (I was raised on grassy lawns) or the sweet shade trees (though that feels true to me).

No, this alive understanding comes from somewhere else, and I think it’s not a place my feet have known before.

 

 

 

 

The promise of something has been discovered right here.  That, however briefly, the history and the future of my heart match up, and I don’t have to explain anything or try to imagine the possibilities.  I just breathe it in, feel it, let it soak into the dry earth parts of myself.

 

 

 

 

It’s the dream parts, realized.

Sweaty babes, learning to walk on the uneven stones.  Sitting in the dirt, tasting flowers and strawberries, not staying still, together side by side on the old blanket.

Dinner with friends gathered outside under the twinkle lights.  Puppies that pass by, neighbors who celebrate another year of gray hair, freshly sautéed brussel sprouts, chicken off the grill, poundcake, coffee cake, watermelon cake, and wine that flows.

The sun setting, laughter into the night, baby asleep in mama’s arms, dear husband who sweetly brushes his fingers through my ponytail.  Talk of friendship and the history of one’s families, dreams of farms and homemade butter, summer vacationing in the mountains, parenthood, and sunday morning nursery duty.

The feeling of the things I once hoped for playing out in real life here.

I know that these people, forever long or however briefly, have showed me the healing of my today.  They’ve sparked a little fire in my hopes, and I see a glimpse of what the future could be.  It is vibrant and full.

…

Praise God from whom all blessings flow;

Praise Him, all creatures here below;

Praise Him above, ye heavenly host;

Praise Father, Son, and Holy Ghost.