God’s storage shed.
October 12, 2013 § 16 Comments
The roof is shaggy with bindweed—morning glories if you want the pretty name.
Fleabane grows tall around its rust-bitten sides.
The doors hang crooked and they’re held together with a chain and a bicycle lock. A pair of bolt cutters would get you in easy.
Seen from the outside it’s not big enough to hold more than a tractor, a couple of saw horses and an electric fan with the plug chewed off by some resident rodent.
But if you get inside you will find it is big enough to hold, well, everything he can’t part with.
Now, he’s not a hoarder, but sometimes he creates a bit of magnificence he just can’t bear to lose to the temporal. So he stores it in this shed; he considers the place his scrapbook of creation.
Once you’ve cut the chain, the doors open out. Too much stuff in there to open in.
Doors open, the first thing you’ll notice is the smell. You’d expect musty, but instead you catch a breath of roses on a Nantucket fence, and the powdery sweet scent of the crown of a baby’s head, coffee too.
If you never go in but just sit in front of those open doors and breathe deep you’ll sit there forever.
The muffled bark of a dreaming dog.
Judy Garland singing “Somewhere Over the Rainbow.”
The prairie whistle of a night train hauling freight.
Some fine hot licks.
If you listen hard you might hear an artifact you remember. Like the giggle of you and your sister sneaking downstairs on Christmas morning.
Sometimes a breeze will come out those doors, blowing your hair back. It’ll be warm if you’re cold and cool if you’re hot.
If you go inside, leave your flashlight in your glove compartment. Plenty of natural light in there.
Against the west, the best sunsets.
He’s let go of the ordinary ones—he’s made so many.
But sometimes he flips through the old inventory to remind himself what he’s got in him.
Sunset, October 8th, 2013? Good one!
But that sunset will just give him a place to start, get his imagination going. He doesn’t want to become a hack by repeating himself.
He’s especially fond of the ephemeral; the stuff that comes and goes so fast it exists too briefly to be appreciated. Like a snowflake, a curl of smoke, a shadow, an autumn leaf, the oil rainbow on a puddle, a drop of falling rain.
Or the moment when the four-legged first stood up on two.
It would be possible to wander in there forever, wave after wave of amazement washing over you, but the ordinary light coming through the door will call you back to a sky not as blue, a smattering of indistinct clouds, the car you drove up in, the one with the loud muffler.
The job, the family, the Tuesday-ness of real life.
Only God can handle the full force of his collected miracles, so most of the time we sit on the other side of those doors and offer him miracle suggestions: God do this. God do that.
As he’s probably made clear from the way he answers those requests, it’s best to let him surprise us.
If you’ve looked inside his shed you know. His dreams are bigger than ours.