Dab on perfume before bed…wrists, knees, neck, hair; lilacs and rain under an old t-shirt, the origin of which I don’t recall but probably some ex-boyfriend’s drawer. If there was a memory attached to it, I’ve forgotten it. The perfume’s a new thing. The forgetting was probably on purpose.I trip over boots and trip over the dog, stub my toe, say a dirty word. Feel bad for my unladylike sailor mouth and try replacing the four-letter exclamation with something tamer, but it doesn’t have the same effect. Say another dirty one. The dog gives me the stink eye.
I pick up my Bible from the nightstand, all soft leather and delicate pages, and take in those letters in red to soothe my heart. Sometimes I wonder if there’s any saving this gypsy soul of mine – I’ve always been a little more Jack Daniels than Jesus -- but I guess it was the Lord who made me hard to handle in the first place, and He knows what He’s doing.
I say my prayers. None of them are for me. “Just take care of the people I love and care about.” A friend once told me, just talk to God like you’re talking to me. I told him I don’t think God would appreciate the innuendos -- always the smartass. I decided a long time ago that since the Lord knows my heart, it’s better to let that do the talking than muck it all up with words.
And I know this is His doing, the wandering mind, the long-dormant butterflies now awakened. Mysterious ways and perfect timing indeed. It all happens for a reason. I'm no stranger to looking like a fool, to leaping before I look, to falling fast and free without worrying about what's waiting below to catch me. This well-worn heart knows the way. It's in the hands of the Lord, to do with what He pleases. I trust Him implicitly.
I say another little prayer, just in case it makes a difference.
And I wish you were here.