When You’re Low
The yard is thick with crab grass, which makes me feel right, and every step passed it releases a world of hateful chiggers. No matter how beautiful the dress and sandals or manicured the toes, chiggers find a way to violate a woman, make her remember that in her heart, after all, she’s barefooted and prefers to be where chiggers are an option.
Today is a no makeup day. Tiny grasshoppers leap 20 times the length of their bodies, those alien summer fairies and their purr. Across the yard, tomatoes dot the garden, the little ones I grew up calling tommy toes. A deer has nipped the tops of just about everything else, which may be just as well. It’s so dry here.
I worry about friends in Colarado Springs with all the fire. I worry about the soil’s grip on the water here. What you expect to come out on the other side of hard work feels a lot like HOPE.
And when you find your hope on things like rain or health, family or friends, position or wealth, you find it a flittering thing. Walking past our muddy low pond, pollywogs writhe. The frogs twitch out of sight.
It’s called humility to remember how great is God and how little I am, my dress-tale tucked up to make a tomato basket. I am in the low way, and that has made me friends with brittle grass. Some people get to water their gardens with tears.
It’s okay to be broken-hearted, to be in the waiting for rain. It only means that God will reveal Himself fresh, not as if He’s not already present, because He is. He’s even already answered.
In the distance, I see a cloud and in it a man on a white horse of thunder.
Nature cranes its neck waiting, mouth open.
Oh my soul, I lick the Psalms for breakfast.
Forget self-esteem. What is your Christ-esteem?