Dictionaries and Desert Roses






Do you ever get a tiny hint of something that transports you back to a wonderful memory? A sort of super saturated déjà vu, a sort of running cannon ball into the deep pool of your five senses?  I LOVE those!  There has been just a few  times over the  years  that I have enjoyed these moments. One such moment occurred a  couple of years ago as I was walking up to my door on a clear night with a huge bright moon. A warm dry breeze blew up, bringing  with it a light floral sandy scent.  As soon as the aroma filled my nostrils, I was a kid again, on one of many family road trips across the U.S., riding in the back seat of my parents station wagon, windows down, my head resting on the door.   I stared at the bulging moon and brilliant stars, while my tangled hair whipped in the wind.  My breaths grew sleepy and rhythmic with the hum of the tires on the infinite stretch of highway that sliced the deserts of New Mexico, steeped with cactus blooms, and the settling of dust and dew.  It's hard to describe the tranquility I enjoyed marveling at the vast moving sky from the passenger's side of that '77 Buick road beast.  I wished on stars, talked to God, and dreamed up romantic fairy tales, all involving me of course and my middle school crush of the week.  I relished in the sight of the reflection of the moonlight in my mom's driving glasses and took comfort in watching my dad read road maps under the overhead light even though the pavement  wouldn't curve for miles.  My reminiscent moment was fleeting and I found myself inhaling and sniffing in every direction to get just one more memory inducing  whiff.  

There have been others too,  recently while roasting marshmallows in the fireplace with my kids, I had an ephemeral rapture back to the childhood bonfires we would have on the beach.  I laid belly down on my Little Mermaid towel, snug in a fuzzy sweatshirt, and stared into the flickering flame that reddened my cheeks.  I could taste the seashore in my cracked lips.  It tasted like building castles and searching for sand crabs and clinging to boogie boards.

I am now blessed with the beauty of the Midwest as my backyard, but still every now and then, God gives me a small taste of beauty from across the nation.  I haven't driven through the deserts or felt the sand between my toes in years, but I am thankful for the brief glimpse of natural beauty and creation, even if they only exist in my head. 

The natural tends to give us just a tiny peek, a delightful nibble of the supernatural.  Our gifts, our callings, our creative pouring, are compliments to His gifts.  They can praise and thank, or crave and ache, or testify and glorify, or influence and question, or even probe and dissect.  They are what our eyes see, our ears hear, our lips taste, and our hearts feel.  We all stop to smell the flowers in different ways and at different times, but the beauty of the flower remains the same.  We are naturally tied to creation, naturally intended to create, as our best mortal efforts to imitate the Creator.  I came across an insightful quote that was referenced in a book by Philip Yancey from a chapter titled God Loveth Adverbs. Lewis Smedes tells in his book, My God and I, about a Creator who,

liked elegant sentences and was offended by dangling modifiers.  Once you believe this, where can you stop?  If the Maker of the Universe admired words well put together, think of how he must love sound well put together, and if he loved sound thinking, how he must love a Bach concerto and if he loved a Bach concerto think of how he prized any human effort to bring a foretaste, be it ever so small, of his Kingdom of Justice and peace and happiness to the victimized people of the world.  In short, I met the Maker of the Universe who loved the world he made and was dedicated to its redemption.  I found the joy of the Lord, not at a prayer meeting, but in English Composition 101.

Whether it be writing, painting, singing, photographing, or any other form of creating, I would like to dedicate this page, "Hearts in the Arts", to all the gifted and talented individuals who are the only ones that can portray how they, themselves, stop to smell the flowers.