As I Lay In the Grass

The Dinkins' house is the most peace that I find in all of Charlotte -- maybe because it isn't really in Charlotte. I lie out in their front yard beneath tall, old, pinoak trees in grass that has not been cut in at least two weeks of summer. A barbed wire fence with splintery wooden posts borders the yard. On the other side of the fence is a field, usually covered in wheat. The wheat has already been harvested this year, though. Now pea-green grass grows as far as I can see, right up to the treeline, as high as my knees if I were ever bold enough to jump the fence and trample through it.

Sometimes when I'm out there, I dream that I'm in Ireland. I hear the grass is green there, as well, on the other side of the Atlantic. The Dinkins' lawn and field are most serene just before a summer storm. Only one spot of sunbeams shoot from heaven to earth. Half the sky is dark gray... the other half blue. Thunder rumbles in the distance, reminding me of Daddy's diesel engine starting first thing every morning of my childhood. The old brick house hidden in leaves adds to the surroundings, but not too boldly.

There, lying on the line between the yard and the field, it does not matter how I look. It does not matter if I'm out of shape or overweight. The brand or style of my clothes does not matter at all, either. There, I am part of the beauty around me. My dark hair brushes my elbows beside the blades of grass, twirled around by the approaching storm's gentle breathing.

How could someone have ever imagined those types of moments and planted them within my life? ... moments that feel like a painting... moments when "real life" as we synically view it vanishes, and we are left with the present that seems like a perfect movie. People ask if we deserve the horrible things that God allows in our lives. I, however, wonder if we deserve the good.