the green door...

I woke up in the quiet darkness of the morning. I looked over at my clock. It wasn't that early; already seven o'clock. The sun is usually streaming in my window at seven o'clock determined to force me out of my coziness and into the day. But not this morning. It was still rather dark outside and utterly still. There are usually some birds chirping or dogs barking, but not this morning. All the same, I was awake so I rolled out of bed, put on my slippers and bathrobe and walked to the back door to let the dogs outside.

I stood on the porch for a few moments, blinking the lingering sleep out of my eyes. I blinked again. Was it getting darker? Surely not. The sky was gray with a thick blanket of clouds. A slight breeze began to rustle the leaves of the oak tree. It was getting darker. Then I heard the first drops. Pit-pat-pat-pat-pit-pit. The dogs heard it too and hastily scurried back onto the porch, for the wind was picking up now. The wind chimes hanging in the dogwood began to sway and sing. And then it seemed that night had won a wrestling match with day as the darkness settled over the sky and ground, and the storm began to flex its muscles. The rain was pounding down now and the wind swept up against the house in a steady rhythm. I saw the first flash of lightning and heard the low rumble of thunder in the distance. The momentary glimpse of light seemed to bounce off of every corner of the yard and then disappear again into the dark shadows.

The dogs were getting anxious now and beat their tails against the door, begging me to let them back inside. I sighed and conceded to their whining. I stopped short of stepping back into the kitchen. Something about the back door seemed familiar. I’m not sure whether it was the large tri-paned window looking out to the porch or the chipped green paint that curled up around the edges, tempting me to peel it off in long strips, but it was definitely familiar. It made me think of my Grandmother’s kitchen door.

Although it has been many years since her death, I can still remember her kitchen door. It was a Dutch door with two doorknobs. The top half held a large window which opened to the back patio and the sharp fragrance of boxwoods. On the bottom half a nail hung a long string of old metal bells which made loud jangling noises every time the door opened and closed. The sound was like a cathedral of cow bells, all ringing at different times with slightly different tones. As a child, I could reach the bottom doorknob with ease and took great joy in opening the bottom half and creeping outside as if I were a rabbit peering out of my rabbit hole. My sister and I always preferred to use the kitchen door instead of the front door for this very reason. It was as if the door was made specifically for curious children who couldn't decide if they wanted to be inside or out.

My Grandmother’s door was painted green, like mine, only a bit darker. Her door was painted to match the olive colored cabinets and sage colored refrigerator in the kitchen. Like the door, it was a curious kitchen. A small black and white television sat on the edge of the counter with tall bunny ear antennas straining to hold a signal. The cabinets held treasures and secrets. I knew which cabinet held the cinnamon sugar and which held the life cereal and the raisin bran. And I also knew that behind the raisin bran was hidden an olive-green rotary telephone. It was exactly the same color green as the inside of the cereal cabinet where it sat camouflaged. It might have gone unnoticed to the unsuspecting breakfaster, if not for the startling, old fashioned ring which sounded like a bell being hammered with mallets.

Breakfast was my favorite meal at her house. I remember waking up before the sun and tiptoeing down the dark, silent hallway, through the living room and into the green glow flooding out of the kitchen where my Grandmother stood by the stove in her colored housecoat cooking sausage patties and watching gray images flicker on that tiny old television set.

Yes, the back door was definitely similar to my Grandmother's. Perhaps that's why it so quickly felt like home here after I moved in. I let the memories wash over me for a moment. I was a child again, and there standing before me was the image of the quiet, petite woman who reigned in that small green kitchen over all its quirks and secrets.

I grinned to myself. It's time for breakfast, I thought. And I walked to the stove and put the kettle on.

Goodnight Moon...

Last night my roommate and I bundled ourselves in our warmest coats, scarves and hats. We packed a bottle of wine and the quilt off of the couch. We drove into the mountains, to a place where the trees clear to reveal a wide, smooth rock that looks out over the city and the foothills. It's called Bald Rock. I used to come up to this place often when I was in college. I knew it would be the perfect place to visit the moon. It was pretty much deserted when we arrived. We found a spot where the rock seemed to dip in, like a deep ladle. We spread out our blankets and settled underneath them to wait for the eclipse. I suggested we tell each other stories while we waited. Lindsay didn't get too far with the story she began, so I took over. When the end finally came, she paused for a moment and then said teasingly, "You read too many books, you know." :) I smiled and took it as a great compliment.

The rock had slowly filled with people by the time my story ended. There were groups, small and large gathered across the long cold stone. Some had built small fires and I could see the outline of their faces against the warm orange glow in the distance. Others were standing near the edge of the mountain where all that lighted in the darkness were the ends of a few lone cigarettes. Couples trailed off two by two. And still others sat in half circles laughing and huddling together for warmth. What began as a quiet murmur of voices was now a loud chorus of various conversations.

And then I heard the faint strumming of a guitar. It came from somewhere off to my right. The strumming became louder and the voices seemed to die away. And then a single, clear, beautiful voice sang out into the darkness. No one spoke as the guitar strummed and the girl sang. It was as if her song had temporarily put everyone into a compulsory silence. I blinked as I looked up at the sky and then I was in another time, another place.

I was 19, and I was standing on the balcony of a dormitory at Furman listening to a couple of guys talk about Jesus. We sang out praises to the Lord with the strumming of their guitars and we held nothing back in our songs. Then I was leaning against a tree, deep in the Colorado Rockies, where twenty minutes seemed like a lifetime, and a shooting star assured me that my prayers had been heard. Then it was Easter morning before the sun had risen. I was 21 that year and had no idea what the next steps for my life were. I sat on the great rock with my dear friend Beth waiting for dawn and the promise of new life and resolved to trust and follow even though I could not see exactly where the Lord was taking me. The rock then turned to grass, and it was late on a midsummer's night in a garden in southern Germany. I was laying on my back with Jenna, pointing out constellations, discussing life and marvelling at how we had landed ourselves half way across the world. Then I found myself in a candlelit room with 6 or 7 other precious women whose hands were laid on my head, arms, legs and back as they covered me with their prayers. Then the room disappeared and I was once again standing on this same Bald Rock, not quite one year ago, weeping as I held out my heart before the Lord, broken and bleeding.

I blinked. The end of the girl's song seemed to jolt me back into the present. I looked up at the moon and it was almost completely shadowed in deep bronze. Only a sliver of silver remained. As I took in the great expanse of sky above me I noticed that thousands and thousands of stars had appeared in the absence of the moon's glow. Hot tears stung my cold face and I felt the weight of God's bigness and vastness sweep over me. He met me there in those moments and whispered the evidence of his goodness and the fulfillment of His promises to me just as Jesus explained all of the law and the prophets to the disciples on the road to Emmaus. And like them, my heart burned within me.

It is still winter here, where I live. But I can see and feel the first signs of spring as surely as the daffodil buds push their way through the cold ground in my yard.