The Summer Files: There’s a Light at the End

The last week of July, I attended the annual Realm Makers conference–a writers conference for Christian authors of speculative fiction (although all are welcome). As advertised, it isn’t your grandmother’s writers conference–meaning we aren’t afraid to walk into Zacchaeus’ house (despite the judgements of those standing outside) to bring him a meaningful story.

Ted Dekker gave the keynote speech, and the word he used that stood out to me was perception. Your perception determines your experience in this life.
Does it?
My family picked me up afterwards, and we headed for Yellowstone. My son, who has struggled with health problems his whole life, charged along the trails like a monkey on speed. “Best vacation ever!” he kept saying. In the heat, the endless steps in Mammoth Hot Springs, with the odor of sulphur permeating the air. He only saw awesomeness. It’s amazing how a captivatingly beautiful land can reside within such stench.


To pick on Noah for practically dragging me along, I messed with his Batman hat until he told me, “Mommy. Don’t touch the darkness.” He illustrated this concept by hopping around the shadows, stepping only where the sun touched the ground. He’s had enough darkness, trust me, but he has this in-born joy that keeps him from falling into it. He’s my superhero.
My daughter, poor thing, is a worrier. She dreaded being separated from me for the few days I spent in Reno, and let that cloud any excitement over our trip…until she got there. When J handed her the camera, and gave her the job as family photographer, she saw the world through a whole new lens.
The light even gave her a kiss.

 

There’s a jagged edge between light and dark. The secret is not in the proximity, but where you direct your eyes.

Perspective

Despite the whir of deadlines blowing in with fall, my dog still gets her morning walk. She naps until I return from taking the kids to school. Black licorice fur nestled into the couch with her floppy lips squished half-way to her nose, tail thump-thump-thumping a slap-happy rhythm. Walk now! Walk now! Walk now!

I remind her to get a drink of water because she’s a hyper puppy and will occasionally play until the froth of dehydration lines her mouth. It’s all about living in the moment.

She licks a few from her bowl then I strap my phone to my arm and off we go, walking along the weedless lawns of unoriginal-house-ville.

Usually, I take a big breath of fresh air and thank God for the town I live in because the mornings are always lovely, there are still a few patches of undeveloped land—and it amuses me that no matter how much sprucing of lawns20150928_084636 people do, dogs will pick the most beautifully manicured bush to pee on. All of them. It’s no wonder the more elite greenery is discolored.

Don’t get me wrong—I love seeing the neighbors caring for their lawn. I can literally see affection spilling from some of them—arms to watering cans, life to flowers—beautiful touches to otherwise drab rows of brown and brownish and somewhat-brown southwestern homes. And then there are those in industrial strength masks, and gloves that would make a welder proud, attacking their yards as if a single weed might engulf their pristine home.

But dogs don’t care. They just want to enjoy every moment. The moment, not the results.

Peeing on the most attractive bushes.

Dogs are so happy. They don’t care if the bush grew roots in the Finest Garden Center or if it was pilfered from the sticks. I’m convinced they’re put on this earth to remind us all to relax.

*lick*

We like walking along the trail around the community too. There are weeds everywhere, but when the light hits them right, it looks like we’re surrounded in a sea of gold.

That’s what dogs see—gold around every corner. And that’s why Bella’s time comes before I sit down to work—so I remember the results are meaningless if I can’t laugh over the messes it took to get there, and the joy it is to just be.