Sunsets and Stars

I look down to the backyard from my upper bedroom window, where my gaze falls on Nova (1) who is sitting on the trampoline with her little plate of food.

She’s alone.

I look for her buddy. Then, I see Auden (5) sauntering over to the picnic table to pick up the canvas he had painted earlier this morning.

He carries it to the trampoline and climbs on.

In his gentle, soprano voice he casually asks Nova, “Do you want to see my painting?”  {As if it's probably the thing she would most like to see in the world at this moment.  Who would not want to see art?  A piece of his heart?}

I see her little blond head nod, almost imperceptibly.

He sits and crosses his legs, turning the canvas to show her, “It’s a sunset.”

The picture is mostly a black night full of stars with a thin line of pink light on the horizon.

“Do you like it?”

Again, slight nod.

He returns the picture to the table, and then to their lunch on the trampoline together.

It is in these commonplace moments, these simple daily exchanges that I am lost in the reality of a Divine dance that whirls about us unceasingly. It is nearly invisible in it’s subtlety, yet plays out so vibrantly and visibly through the flesh of my children; this is heaven.

What gift is this to be so alive, to observe and see knit together these pieces of scattered light and expressions of passion all here within arm’s reach?

My sunsets are full of stars.  

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