In the Fik of it

She woke up happy this morning, I should have known I’d have wet sheets; why else would she be up so early?  As she stood there dancing around, chirping like an early morning bird, I gathered wet bedding happy for the joy in her voice.  The more I dug at the sheets, the more I realized the severity of the watering.  As she turned around I saw the dark outline reaching up to her middle back; “crap” I muttered out loud.  I knew the battle I was in for – a wet sweatshirt, vest, camisole and jeans meant this morning would turn into an epic battle. I struggled to get her to surrender the ever-present denim vest and hooded sweatshirt, peeling them off with her fighting with every ounce of resistance she could offer.  Pulling that sweatshirt off in her mind is like flaying skin and sometimes I wonder if it hasn’t been on so long that it’s actually attached to her. I managed to get them all off and summarily marched her to the shower.  O...

We were sharing a handful of pistachios while sitting on the back porch swing, the sun setting off to the west, Thrushes and Towhees gently calling an end to the day.  Swinging back and forth on the old porch swing, she munched on the singularly dispensed nuts that I offer her.  As for me, I needed to simply be careful not to knock over the beer bottle that was strategically placed between my feet.  For 90 seconds life is suspended in this animated glory, I dare not reach for the beer for fear that the trance will be broken, the moment lost and the struggle we had earlier in the evening resumed. These moments are so few and when they hit I dare not breathe for fear of losing them.  They’re what I call the “grace moments” – God reaches out and puts peace in my heart and it’s the same epiphany that Martin Luther no doubt held when he came to understand that we’re saved by grace, not by works.  That same gong goes off in my head as I realize...