I’m sharing a piece of me today, a raw bit, a wee story that I’ve been invited to set afloat at Preston’s. It’s part of an ongoing conversation there, an invitation for all of us to look at ourselves through the lens of time and trace the thread of God’s working through the scenes we see. Join us?
Rain cries creeks down the glass, torrents of watery blur sliding down, puddling, spilling over the cracked weatherstripping of the rusted-out 1988 Subaru station wagon, my fortress, my hiding place with hubcaps. The backseat is too small, the car is too small, too rickety to hold what eight-year-old me is asking it to; and the crying shakes my small shivering body back and forth on the yellowed faux leather. There are geometric patterns on my sweater, splotched with heavy drops, and my faded jeans squeak against the seat, and everything takes on an ugly, distorted shape through the rain on my glasses. I want to race the rain, beat it, prove that my trampled world is more important than what rips the skies.
I’ve left a trail of mud-slopped size seven bootprints in the dirt driveway, and every crack of lightning drives their little shadows deeper against the soggy ground. I catch a moment of watery clearness through the rainy glass and see a set of size eleven bootprints chasing mine, and I jolt the door lock down, hard, and throw myself across the front seat to slam the others down as well.
Join in the rest here, will you?