In the sunporch, I savour my first cup of morning coffee, wondering what magic there is in these first sips and why it never tastes quite as good later in the day. In the quiet, I am sensing the sacred, when my granddaughter Tori, and her dog, Kevin, come out of the house, she shuffling feet into outdoor shoes with her back turned to me when I gently say, “Hello." She turns, “Oh, I didn’t even know you were here,” she says.
I ask where they are going, thinking of joining them if going for a walk, but Tori’s boyfriend, Dylan, and his twin sister, Jordan are coming over with Gonzo, one of their family’s dogs—in fact, they are arriving as we speak, Jordan in shorts, and a long plaid shirt with sleeves rolled up, her dark hair cut short and artsy. Dylan, also dark-haired, is tall and angular. Both of them have the most beautiful, kind eyes.
I walk down the curving driveway to say hello to them, and Tori cautions me about little Gonzo, “Be careful, he can be unfriendly to people.” Jordan, too, as I approach says, “Gonzo can be ‘iffy'" Gonzo makes a bee-line for me with tail wagging. I bask in his affirmation.
Back in the sunporch, I watch three kindred spirits, all passionate animal lovers, happy in the company of one another and that of their dogs, which spin around them with glad hearts and wagging tails.
I hear an invitation, "Just join me in my joy." And I do, the sacred being here, now, in the love of Creator for his creatures, as He dances unseen all around them.
A few minutes later I pick up a book I've been reading, The Face of Water, by Madeline L'Engle, and I read the words of Sara Zarr in the preface, about a Christian artist growing up out of the belief that there is such a distance between the secular and sacred and into an understanding that the sacred is all around us, and I whisper, "Yes, Lord, teach me to see."